The Fight
by Petroica traversi
Summary: Christophe and Gregory face many obstacles as they fight against a fascist government. Can they make it through the revolution alive? Gregstophe, Style. Revised and stuff.
1. Prologue

So, uh, I've decided to revise all the chapters of this fic before finishing it. I feel like it could use more fleshing out, and there's some typos that I'm not even sure how I missed, but I did. So, the Fight, REVISED.

X

_Prologue_

Procuring new weapons or ammo was always a major hassle. Stan had connections, but even with those, it was no easy task. Slinking down a back alley, he had already undergone the pat-down by the security guard at the corner, and he felt his shoulders tense as he approached the second guard by the door to the hidden shop. He'd been going here for about a year, but he'd been on a waiting list for months before they ever let him inside the shop. The owners had done all kinds of background checks on him, careful to make sure he wasn't secretly working for the government.

Still, the hassle was well worth it. La Resistance was going strong, and the new recruits needed weapons to help with the fight, and this was the best place to get them. Plus all the security checks meant the shop he frequented was as safe as possible for him to visit, with minimal risk of being seen by someone he didn't want exposing him. The security guard at the door examined his ID card and papers, and waved him through with a bored look on his face.

Stan took a quick glance around the shop as he entered it. It was empty, save for a blonde, sophisticated-looking guy examining a machine gun. He looked a little out of place among all the heavy machinery, but with things being the way they were, the best way to get a bullet in the face was to oggle people who were paranoid about their safety. The kind of people who would be perusing a secret hidden gun shop at 2 o'clock in the morning, for example. Stan approached the man at the counter to place his order, smiling and striking up a conversation with him as he did so.

The methods this shop employed were rather ingenious. They had display samples all along the walls, and a limited supply room in the back for small orders. Larger orders, such as the ones Stan usually had to make, were processed through their outside warehouse, and shipped out disguised as medical supplies or foodstuffs. Most people, even those with small orders, tended to have their things shipped, since under the harsh new government laws, anyone caught on the street with a gun would be executed immediately.

Stan stepped to the counter and put in a large enough order to keep him in "business" for a few more months. After signing some papers and handing over a rather large wad of cash, he talked shop with the owner for a few minutes, until he felt the presence of the blonde from before hovering behind his back. He could tell the man was trying to get a good look at him, but he ignored him until finally he couldn't stand it anymore.  
>"Can I help you?" he asked, turning slowly to face the young man. He got a much better look at him this time. Wavy, golden hair framed a pretty face. He had sparkling blue eyes, and a beautiful mouth that curved into a smile when he was finally able to examine Stan's face. There was something a little off about him; he seemed slightly effeminate, and was extremely well-dressed in a form-fitting, tailored suit. Not the sort of person you'd expect to see on this side of town, much less in a gun shop. He also looked strangely familiar, but Stan couldn't quite place where he might have seen him before. But he apparently recognized Stan.<p>

"Ah, my goodness, I thought it was you," the blonde said in a clipped British accent. He gave Stan a scrutinizing look, "...But you don't appear to remember me."

Stan was annoyed by the confident smirk that appeared on the blonde boy's face, but something in it jogged his memory. Somehow flashes of the first incarnation of La Resistance ran through his head, and he thought he had his answer. What the hell had that guy's name been? George? Gary? It didn't matter. "You're that kid that stole my girlfriend in third grade!" he shouted.

A strange look crossed over the blonde's face. It was somewhere between surprise and distaste. Stan immediately knew he had said something stupid.

"That's what you remember me as? We worked together, and fought for a noble cause, and you only remember me as the kid that stole your girlfriend? Typical," he said, rolling his eyes and planting his hands upon his hips.

The bell at the front of the store jangled, as a new customer wandered in. Even if all the customers at the shop had been cleared by its owners, Stan didn't like taking chances with his safety. He glanced nervously at the newcomer, and then back at the blonde.

"Look, uh..."

"Gregory."

Oh yeah. "Gregory. None of this matters. This little trip down memory lane has been fun and all, but it's not really important, and I have to be going now." Stan turned to leave, but was stopped by Gregory's hand on his arm.

"Wait, Stanley!"

Oh, of _course_ he remembered Stan's name.

"Look, perhaps we can be of assistance to each other. It's apparent we're in the same... business, and having contacts is always a good thing." He smiled a full smile at Stan, revealing a row of perfectly straight, white teeth. He could admit to himself that Gregory was a very attractive young man, even if blondes weren't really his type. _He__probably__knows__that,__though,_thought Stan, _He's__probably__trying__to__charm__me__so__that__he__gets__his__way._

Stan glared at Gregory for a moment, before anxiously glancing once more at the man who had entered the shop earlier.

"Can we have this conversation outside, maybe?" he asked.

"Oh, sure," said Gregory with a smile, following Stan toward the door.

Stan mulled over this new development as they walked toward the deserted end of the alley. Childish or not, he still held a grudge against Gregory. But Gregory was right... contacts _were_ important, and if Stan remembered correctly, he was a very smart guy, who was good at making plans. Perhaps La Resistance could use his assistance once again.

Once they reached the end of the alley they turned to each other. Stan kind of wanted to wipe that self-satisfied look off Gregory's face, but figured that might be counter-productive.

"So, you're doing resistance work?" he asked instead.

"Oh yes, Christophe and I – Oh, do you remember Christophe? The Mole, that is," he paused as Stan nodded in affirmation, "Yes, well, he and I are partners. We do a lot of small-time things, mostly gathering data and the like, sometimes assassinations, but we certainly wouldn't mind getting involved in something a bit more large-scale. And if nothing else it would be nice to hear what's going on in the larger community. It's hard to get any information on that these days."

Stan nodded thoughtfully at this. He wasn't sure they'd be much of a help to La Resistance if they weren't used to helping out larger groups, but maybe Kyle would disagree. They could discuss it tonight before they came to any decisions.

"Ok," Stan said, "It probably isn't safe to discuss this here, at any rate. Can you both meet with us tomorrow?"

"We have somewhere to be in the evening, but we could meet around noon, perhaps?"

"Sure. Then meet me at Cafe Musain around noon tomorrow. It's near the 16th Street Mall."

"Musain?" Gregory asked with a quirk of his lips, "_Really?_"

Stan just gave him a warning look, before turning and heading back down the alley. With a sigh, Gregory returned to the store to place his own order.


	2. Chapter 1: At the End of the Day

Ch 1. Revised! Please review!

x

Upon returning home some time after 3am, Gregory could immediately could tell that Christophe was definitely not home. They had a lamp near the front window they always left on as a signal that someone was in the house, but even without that secret code, he would have known. The house always felt different to him when Christophe wasn't around.

"He must still be out on his mission," he thought to himself as he unlocked the front door.

Their house was small, but charming. It was a tiny old thing from the turn of the century, with a little porch out front, and a fastidiously cultivated garden. Gardening was one of the many things they enjoyed doing together- Christophe naturally enjoyed digging around in the dirt, while Gregory enjoyed the colorful payoff they got when the flowers began to bloom, and the strawberries started to bear fruit. Gregory smiled at the thought-Christophe was much more domesticated than most people imagined, although he could still be difficult to live with. Christophe loved to pick fights, walked around in a grumpy haze all too often, and he wasn't too concerned with cleanliness, which was usually their biggest issue with cohabitation.

Gregory kept most of the house very clean, and it had a very proper, if not slightly vintage feel to it. The only room that was ever a disaster (which was how Christophe seemed to prefer a space) was their office, which had piles of papers and maps everywhere, and a closet stocked full with guns. Twice Gregory had attempted to introduce a filing system to the chaos, but Christophe had his own sort of haphazard organization system which seemed to work for him, and he got mad any time Gregory tried to clean it up.

Unless his mission had gone awry, Christophe ought to be home soon, and Gregory knew he'd be ravenous when he walked in the door. After setting his things down and changing out of his suit into comfy pants and a sweater, he began preparing a late dinner for the two of them.

He set about making a omelettes, figuring that was the fastest, easiest way to go. He was cutting onions and red peppers and mixing them with the eggs when he heard the front door opening.

"'oney, I am 'ome," he heard his boyfriend call, almost mockingly. Christophe still hated Americanisms, despite having lived in the US for so many years.

Gregory looked up and smiled as he felt Christophe's arms wrap around him from behind, but froze when the stench of dirt, sweat, and copious amounts of blood filled his nostrils. He turned to look at Christophe, pushing him away slightly as he took in his filthy appearance. The dirt and sweat were normal, and a little bit of blood was not uncommon for the mercenary to have on him. But Christophe was drenched from head to toe in red and drying brown, some of it flaking off onto the floor. Gregory wrinkled his nose and backed away.

"Good lord, what on Earth happened to you? I hope you didn't get any of that on me, I just put on a clean top."

Christophe shrugged, "I 'it a few snags. It is ok, though, I am unhurt, and I accomplished what I set out to do." He held up a handful of papers he had been sent to recover.

"Well, that's good, darling, but you need to clean yourself up before you track filth all over the house... or worse, get it all over me. The food will be done when you get out of the shower."

Christophe stood there scowling for a minute, before pecking Gregory on the cheek and trudging to the office to add his loot to the teetering piles of paperwork in there. Gregory watched him, and smirked to himself when Christophe emerged from the office and headed right to the shower. Though the blood and gore coating his skin didn't bother Christophe in the least, he knew Gregory would be a pain in the ass to be around if he insisted on staying dirty, so he usually complied when asked to bathe. Gregory mentally patted himself on the back for having such a well-trained boyfriend.

When Christophe returned from the shower, dressed only in his underwear, Gregory had already set the table for them, and waited for him to sit down before he started eating.

"No clothes, dear? Hm," he said, frowning as Christophe sat down next time him, immediately digging into his meal.

Christophe didn't respond, and Gregory watched him eat for a moment. He really wished someone had bothered to teach Christophe proper table manners when he was younger.

"Anyway," he said after a few minutes, taking a bite of his own omelette and swallowing it before continuing, "You'll never guess who I ran into today,"

"Who might zat be?"

"Stanley Marsh... do you remember him?"

Christophe looked pensive for a moment, before answering, "Should I?"

"He worked with us during the war against Canada... he and his friends."

"Ah... ze boy obsessed with the clitoris... Oui, I remember them. 'is friend with ze green hat was afraid of 'is mother, and ze fat one... was a stupid pathetic waste of space, who got me killed."

He didn't seem surprised that Gregory had run into one of them. Last they'd heard the two smaller boys had started some resistance work, though they didn't know on what scale, while the fat one... well, he had gone on to other things. Everyone knew about him, to say the least.

"Yes, well, I asked Stanley if we could talk to him about work and the like, so we'll be meeting them tomorrow at noon."

Christophe glanced at the clock, which read 3:45am. "You mean today at noon. Are we going to get any sleep tonight?"

"Well," Gregory said, picking up his now empty plate, "If you'll help me with the dishes, we can. Although I don't expect you have sleep in mind at the moment, do you?"

Christophe just gave him a wicked grin, and obediently took his plate to the kitchen.

x

Gregory always enjoyed sex with Christophe after he came back from a mission. There was always some adrenaline still cycling around in his system, and he was rougher than usual, pounding into Gregory at a furious pace, hands gripping his hips hard enough to leave bruises that lasted for days. Gregory also enjoyed it when Christophe was sweet and gentle with him, but sometimes he felt he'd never get enough of this; being thrown around the bed like a rag doll, having his throat sucked on and bitten until he was nearly in tears. Christophe almost never kissed him during these violent episodes until he was climaxing, breathing heavily into Gregory's mouth with deep, satisfied moans.

Gregory was still trying to catch his breath as Christophe rolled over and lit a cigarette. They laid quietly for a moment as their heart rates slowed down.

"Zat shower you made me take was kind of a waste, non?"

"Don't be stupid," Gregory said, rolling over toward Christophe and stretching against his side, "I wasn't going to have sex with you if you were covered in blood and God-knows-what."

Christophe just shrugged and took a drag off his cigarette. "What are your intentions for tomorrow?"

"Ah, well, we ought to leave here around 11 if we're going to be at this place in time. Really, I'd just like to get an idea of what he's up to. …...Did I tell you it's called Cafe Musain?"

Christophe snorted, "Cafe Musain? Ees zat supposed to be clever?"

Gregory laughed. He hadn't thought the Les Mis joke was very funny, and apparently Christophe didn't either.

"Anyway," Christophe continued, "I doubt they are doing much... Maybe a lot 'as changed, but during ze war with Canada they were painfully unprepared. They did not even 'ave watches."

"Well, Stanley seemed a little more capable this time around, but I suppose we will find out tomorrow, won't we?"

He pressed himself to Christophe's sweaty side, and drifted off to sleep.

X

A note on Christophe's accent: Um, I want to make it Christophey, but not too heavy-handed, if you know what I mean. I've read fics where you could barely understand a thing he was saying, and I don't want that, but I _do_ want you to read it in his accent. Also you might notice that sometimes I'll spell a word properly, and sometimes more phonetically. That's cause, you know, when you're speaking a foreign language sometimes your accent is better than other times.

...And I don't want my whole fic to be piles and piles of Z's. "Oh tell zem zat ze Zoloft cured my Zoo-phobia!" Yeah, no.


	3. Chapter 2: Les Amis de L'ABC

Gregory awoke the next morning to an empty bed, and the smell of crepes. He yawned and stretched, enjoying the feeling of their expensive sheets against his naked skin. Christophe entered their bedroom, wearing nothing but an apron and carrying a tray which had two plates of the pastries on it, along with a plate of sliced strawberries and a can of whipped cream.

Gregory laughed at his boyfriend's attire and sat up in the bed. Normally he didn't approve of eating anywhere other than the dining room table, but when Christophe was in one of his rare romantic moods he'd let it slide. He knew the moody French boy loved him, but he just wasn't the type to be prone to displays of affection very often. Gregory had learned to enjoy them when they happened. Christophe set the tray next to Gregory on the bed, and then climbed in next to it, throwing the apron on the floor and pulling the blankets up around his waist.

"We 'ave to leave pretty soon eef we are going to get to Denver on time," he said, helping himself to the whipped cream.

"Mm, yes," Gregory replied after taking a bite of a crepe, "This is fantastic, by the way."

Christophe just smirked at him. They sat in content silence while they ate their breakfasts, the only sounds in the room coming from the scraping of the forks on their plates. Gregory noticed that Christophe kept looking at him out of the corner of his eye, but ignored it, enjoying his meal. He was used to his strange moods by now.

He set his now empty plate back on the tray, and laughed as Christophe held up the last piece of strawberry for him to eat. He leaned over to take it, licking at Christophe's fingers as he did so. Christophe just smirked at him like he'd won some contest.

"Well, that was nice," said Gregory, glancing at the clock. They needed to leave soon. He stretched, and noticed that Christophe was watching him intently.

"I'll need to have a shower before we get going. Will you tidy up the kitchen up while I get ready?"

"Mm, oui, and ze bedroom."

"The bedroom? Why?"

But instead of answering, Christophe shoved the tray and plates onto the floor and pinned Gregory to the bed, attacking him with his mouth.

X

Their arrival at Cafe Musain was quite late. Upon entering Gregory's eyes were met with the sight of Stan, loitering impatiently at a table near the counter. There were two young men behind the counter, both quite thin; one had messy blonde hair, and looked rather nervous, and the other had curly red hair and bright green eyes that looked at Gregory expectantly when he gazed toward them. He thought he looked familiar. The cafe was empty save for those three.

Stan immediately jumped up upon seeing the two mercenaries.

"Finally!" he exclaimed, and then leaned over the counter, "Tweek, can you get us four coffees? Come join us, Kyle."

Gregory and Christophe settled into the chairs opposite Stan. Kyle sat down next to him.

"I'm afraid I'm not much of a coffee drinker, Stanley."

Stan gave him a look, "Well, this way if someone else comes in it won't look suspicious."

Christophe gave a snort, clearly unimpressed with the proceedings so far.

"So..." began Stan awkwardly, as Tweek set the coffees down on the table in front of them, and then went back behind the counter.

"What sort of operations do you have going on?" asked Gregory, cutting to the chase.

"A lot more than you probably expect," said Kyle, "We use this as sort of a satellite base to organize meetings and such, but we have another base in the mountains that has nearly 1,000 people living there. We've been engaging in guerrilla warfare, mostly... bombing government cars, roads, whatever. We've been working on some bigger things, and we'd definitely like your help."

Gregory was taken aback by this information. He could remember the last time he'd worked with these kids, when the best idea they could come up with for a resistance movement was to prank call the cops.

"If you're doing so well, why do you need our help?"

"Well, Stan and I have been discussing it, and you know, a lot of our people are unskilled, or are just basically grunts... we could use people like you who know what you're doing. And anyway, if I remember correctly, you were really good at making plans. La Resistance has a lot of brawn at the moment, but not enough brains. Not enough people who can make a plan and then follow through, you know?"

"Ah, well zen, you do not need me," said Christophe as he added copious amounts of creamer to his coffee, "Gregory ees ze brains, not me."

"Nobody asked you to come," answered Stan with a glare. Kyle kicked him under the table.

"We work as a pair, Stanley. If you work with me, you work with him."

"Jesus, stop calling me that. Only my parents call me Stanley."

"Fine, _Stan_. Feel better?"

"If I remember correctly," Kyle said to Christophe, ignoring the tiff that had just taken place, "you're really skilled. I mean, a lot of our people don't know what the hell they're doing... they joined us because they wanted to do something, and didn't know how else to help. We could definitely use you for field work, and maybe you could even help us train other people."

Gregory and Christophe stared at each other for a few seconds, silently communicating with each other. Christophe sipped his coffee. "Hm." was all he said.

"So who runs this operation then?" asked Gregory, looking back at Kyle, "You? ...Um... I don't quite remember your name, sorry..."

"His name is Kyle, and actually I'm the leader... I mean the two of us are, and our friend Kenny. But I make most of the executive decisions."

"Why is he doing all the talking, then?"

"I think 'e ees intimidated by you."

Stan just stared at his coffee and looked frustrated.

"Actually, to be honest, he's a little reluctant to work with you. I had to talk him into it."

"Well why the hell not? I'm not exactly jumping at the chance to join forces, so to speak, but I can see how it could be mutually beneficial. We all have the same goal, after all."

"I don't like you. Either of you. You're too cocky," he said, pointing to Gregory, "and the Mole's a grumpy asshole. And... whatever. I have personal reasons, too," he said, looking away.

"Oh do tell. If this is about Wendy, then you're being ridiculous. That was years ago, and anyway, I'm-"

"Old habits die hard, that's all," interrupted Kyle.

"This ees really irrelevant. Get over whatever your problem ees. Eef we are going to work together, I do not want to deal with petty bullsheet. That ees why Gregory and I 'ave always worked alone, and we will continue to do so eef you can not be an adult about eet."

Stan looked like he was ready to argue some more, but Kyle put a hand on his arm before speaking.

"You're right, Mole. How about we do some kind of small job together, and that way we can see if it would work out or not. If it does, great, and if it doesn't, we can go our separate ways. Stan and I can look over our "to-do" list, and we'll choose a job that we think we could use you for."

Gregory mulled this over for a minute. Stan was already on his nerves, but Kyle seemed to be reasonable enough, and helping out their resistance group might be more useful than the things he and Christophe had been doing on their own.

"Yes, I think that could work," he said at last.

Kyle got up and grabbed a pen and paper from the counter.

"Here, let's exchange contact information, and I'll get a hold of you when we figure out what we're doing."

Gregory complied, and soon he was ushering Christophe out the door, hoping to avoid a physical fight between him and Stan, which seemed imminent.

"What do you think, Christophe?" he asked as Christophe lit up a cigarette, glaring at the sun.

"Hm, well eef they 'ave that many people, they must be doing something right. But we will 'ave to see eef eet will work out. I do not want to work with Stan eef 'e ees going to act like a child."

"Agreed. Now come on, I'm starved, and I want to get lunch before we do that job later."

Christophe nodded, and followed Gregory down the street.


	4. Chapter 3: Dog Eats Dog

Stan wasn't sure why he disliked Christophe and Gregory so much. He was usually pretty good at dealing with difficult people... his childhood had dictated that. Christophe was kind of a given... he was rude, and cocky, and he smoked too god damn much, which Stan found disgusting. And he seemed to enjoy nothing more than picking fights with people. Gregory, however, was always polite and direct, something that Stan could appreciate on some level. Perhaps it was simply the fear that Gregory would take over La Resistance the way he had as a child. Or perhaps Stan still had a bit of an inferiority complex over the fact that Wendy had run off with him for that brief time. Whatever the case may be, Kyle had _insisted_ they at least try and work together, so Stan had given in (after much coercing on Kyle's part), and here they were at 2am, hiding in the shadows outside of a warehouse, waiting for the right moment to approach it.

They had all agreed to go by code names, to protect themselves in case they ran into anyone, or someone intercepted their radio signals, though they were on a closed line, so that was unlikely. Christophe was Taupe, which was Mole in his native language. He had become too well-known under his original pseudonym, but it all meant the same to him. Gregory had been named Oiseau by Christophe years ago, due to his love of singing. Stan was called PETA, which was a nickname Kyle had jokingly given to him years ago that he despised, but answered to anyway. And Kyle went by Dmitri, after a Jewish composer from Russia.

Stan, Gregory and Christophe were wearing headsets with microphones, so they could communicate with each other in case they got separated, and with Kyle who was set up in the back of their SUV with a handful of computers and blueprints. The name of the game tonight was Theft. The building was mostly empty, and their objective was to retrieve a computer on the third floor that had shipping information on it.

"Ok," Stan started, "We've gone over the plans... do you have any questions before we start out?"

Christophe just stared at him with a look of disdain on his face, and Gregory politely shook his head. Stan turned to look at the building one more time before they began, when he heard Christophe say quietly behind him, "Bise, pour la chance."

He turned and saw Gregory and Christophe kissing each other, and his jaw dropped.  
>"Whoa. You guys are gay?"<p>

They broke apart, Gregory with a sigh, and Christophe with a scowl.

"Ees zat a problem?"

"No, I mean... I'm- me and Kyle... are uh. I'm just surprised, ok? Let's... let's just get going."

He heard Kyle laughing at him over the headset, but ignored it, sneaking away from their hiding spot and glancing behind him to make sure the others were following. They crept toward the back door of the warehouse, with Christophe rushing ahead to take out the men loitering near it. He had no look of regret or sympathy upon his face as shot the three men in the head, quickly, before any of them had time to react. They checked the men to make sure they were dead, and then approached the door.

Upon opening it they were greeted with a sight they weren't expecting: ten other men, all standing, alarmed from the sounds of gunfire outside.

"Sheet." Christophe muttered, as he aimed his gun at the nearest one. Gregory and Stan were on either side of him, also firing their guns. One or two of the men in the warehouse were armed, and Christophe felt a bullet graze him, and heard Gregory cry out in pain next to him. Soon it was over, though, and their opponents were all dead on the floor, with the three Resistance members still standing, though slightly bloodied.

"Goodness, do you think anyone ever taught them to aim?" said Gregory, wiping some blood off his arm.

Christophe quickly turned to him and began inspecting him for wounds. "Are you ok? Were you 'it anywhere bad?"

"No, darling, just grazed. And you? Your side is bleeding."

"I am fine," he turned to their compatriot, "Stan, what ze 'ell? I thought there was not supposed to be anyone inside! You could 'ave gotten us killed!"

"Oh gee, thanks, don't ask if I'm ok or anything," he replied, holding a hand to the small graze on the side of his head. It was bleeding, but only just enough to get his fingers wet.

"I do not give a sheet eef you were 'urt! You got us into zis without knowing what you were doing!"

"Hey, don't blame me! We've done recon here several times, and normally there aren't any other people here at night! They must have been having a meeting or something! It's not my fault THEY broke their routine!"

"You guys need to cut it out and worry about your objective," came Kyle's voice over the headsets. "If you're all well enough to stand around and argue then you should go get the computer on the third floor and then get the fuck out of there. We don't have time for this shit. I've disabled the alarms from here, so unless you run into anyone else you should be in the clear."

Stan and Christophe stood glaring at each other for a few seconds, before Gregory started to move toward the staircase, effectively distracting them.

"Coming?"

They both stalked toward the staircase behind him.

The third floor appeared abandoned. If someone else was in the building they had to have heard the gunfight downstairs, and could be hiding with a weapon of their own, so Stan, Christophe and Gregory proceeded with their guns drawn and ready to go. Seeing no one, they cautiously proceeded to the office on the end, and snatched up the laptop sitting on the desk there.

"Zis seems too easy," whispered Christophe, as Stan checked the computer to make sure it was the right one, and then stuffed it into his backpack.

Gregory felt he was exaggerating a little, considering the gunfight they had downstairs, but he agreed. Why were there so many people downstairs, but no one else in the building?

He got his answer when they walked out of the office, and ran straight into three more men, all aiming their guns at them.

"Sheet."

"Ah, darling, you should know by now not to say anything when a mission is going well," Gregory said, as he fired upon the men. Christophe fired as well, and two of the men fell to the floor, dead, while the third was shot in the shoulder and leg.

Christophe wandered over, lighting a cigarette, and kicked the man's gun away from his grasping hand. "Well 'allo zere. Let's talk."

He dug his heel into the man's bleeding shoulder, and smirked as he screamed in pain.

"Who are all you men 'ere tonight? Obviously you are not soldiers of any kind, since you can't shoot a gun for sheet, but who are you?"

"I won't tell you pieces of shit anything."

"Bon, d'accord. PETA, cut off 'is fingers."

"What? Dude, I'm not cutting off his fingers."

Christophe sighed, "You are a pussy, PETA. I will do eet myself, zen."

The man screamed as Christophe pulled his knife out, and grabbed his hand.

"Ready?" he asked the man, with a wicked grin on his face. "Tell us what's going on, or say au revoir to your fingers."

The man just turned his head away with a whimper. Christophe grabbed his pinky and began to slice into it.

Stan knew he'd throw up if he watched the carnage. He turned to Gregory, who was watching with a blank face. "Aren't you going to stop this?"

"Why? It gets results. Don't be so soft."

Stan could feel his stomach churning as the pinky was sliced completely off. He'd killed people before, but he'd never tortured anyone, and had no desire to do so.

The man on the floor was moaning and sobbing, but there was no compassion to be seen on Christophe's face. He put his cigarette out on the man's chest, and then went for the next finger, when the man finally broke down.

"Ok, ok, I'll talk! It was a logistical meeting! We're all managers for a gun company and we were discussing the next shipment. The President has ordered a crackdown on resistance movements, and we were discussing the best way to get the guns to the problem areas!"

"What problem areas?" asked Christophe, still holding a knife to the man's ring finger, cutting into it slightly.

"Well Colorado is known to be one... they _know_ about you! But there's also a lot of groups in other cities engaging in anti-government terrorism. California has a lot going on, and so do a lot of East Coast cities, like New York and DC. The government wants it all stamped out quickly, so we're moving large quantities of guns to those areas to facilitate the crack-downs."

"Is the information about those shipments on this computer?" asked Stan, finally over his queasiness.

"Some, yeah, but there's another computer downstairs we were using during the meeting."

"Were zere any gun shipments zat were going to go out tonight?"

"Yeah, the truck parked out back... it's full of guns, and ammo," the man whimpered.

"Bien. Merci. Oiseau, what do you want to do with 'im?" Christophe lit another cigarette, and turned to face his partner.

The man looked at Gregory as well, with pleading eyes, but it was no use. There was a moment of silence as Gregory came to his decision.  
>"He has seen our faces and heard our code names. Finish him off, love."<p>

The man stared, terrified, as Christophe leaned over to hold him down.

"No! Please!"

Soon he could not beg any more, though, because Christophe had stabbed him in the throat.

XXX

Please send some reviews my way. No reviews makes me think no one is reading, and if no one's reading I might stop bothering with it.


	5. Chapter 4: Upon These Stones

After the mission, Stan and Kyle wound up spending the night at their mountain base. They had decided to make use of the truck full of weapons that was ready to be shipped out to wherever the government was sending them, and had taken it for themselves instead. Stan had driven it up to the mountains, with Kyle following in their SUV.

While they unloaded the truck, they discussed the possibility of working with Gregory and Christophe again.

Stan was completely against the idea.

"That mission was a disaster. They're both insane, especially Christophe. He flipped his shit on me for no reason, and then went totally psycho killer on that guy we captured."

"You're just being stubborn," insisted Kyle, "If he and Gregory are an item, he was probably just freaked out at the thought of him getting hurt. And I don't know if I agree with torturing the government guy, but it got results, didn't it? I mean, you found out what you needed to know. And don't forget, Stan, we're at _war_ here. Those two know what they're doing, and I think they'd be a great help to us."

"Oh don't give me that, they probably just have some fucked up sex thing going on. Christophe probably doesn't even know what love is. He's fucking insane. And he's an asshole."

Kyle sighed, picking up a crate of ammo and moving it out of the truck. "Stan... just because Christophe isn't like us, that doesn't mean he's insane, or an asshole. And you have no idea what kind of relationship he and Gregory have... maybe they really do love each other. ...And anyway, none of that's relevant! We did the job together, and it all worked out well. We got more information than we originally hoped for, and we got a bunch of free weapons to boot! I'm going to talk to Gregory tomorrow and see what he thinks about the whole thing."

Stan slammed the box he was carrying onto the ground. The people helping them unload were starting to stare at the two of them. They almost never argued, especially not in front of others.

"No. No you aren't. I'm not working with them, damn it!"

"You're being unreasonable, Stan," said Kyle, "Look. Just because they join us, that doesn't mean you have to work directly with them anyway. Ok? I can be in charge of assigning them missions, or who knows, they might even agree to work on their own, but share the information they retrieve with us. The fact is that we're all working toward the same goal. A goal which, I might remind you, is more important than you, or me, or something as stupid as conflicting personalities!" he shouted.

Stan sat on one of the boxes they'd just moved and pouted. "I don't like Christophe. I don't want to deal with him."

Kyle just stared at him, shocked at the rare display of childishness. He must had _really_ disliked those two to be behaving in such a manner.

At that moment Kenny came by to see what was up. He was usually a good neutralizing force when Stan and Kyle would argue, and was the person they'd both turn to when they needed a voice of reason.

"Ah, I thought I heard you guys. Having a fight? What's up?"

"Kenny!" shouted Kyle, hugging him, "I haven't seen you in weeks, dude. You're never here when we are!"

"Yeah," said Kenny, hugging Kyle back. He turned to hug Stan as well, but decided against it upon seeing the look on his face. "I've been pretty busy lately. It's great, we have a lot going on. Guess you guys do too, down in Denver, huh?"

"Yeah, we might have more if Mr. Frownypants over there gets over himself."

"Well what's Mr. Frownypants upset about?" Kenny asked with a sly grin upon his face.

"Can we talk about this in the office? Like, you know, not in front of everyone?" asked Stan, who still had a stupid pouty look on his face.

"Sure," answered Kenny, and they all walked to the bunker with their main office in it, leaving a handful of grunts behind to finish unloading the truck.

Their office, which doubled as a living room, was in a small cinder block building that also had two separate bedrooms, a tiny kitchen, and a bathroom for Stan, Kyle, and Kenny. Kenny lived there year-round, but Stan and Kyle spent almost all of their time at their apartment in Denver, so they used the space as more of a place to crash after late-night meetings than anything.

"Stan's being a baby about working with Gregory and Christophe," started Kyle, immediately upon entering the house. "I told you our mission with them was tonight, right?"

"Yeah," answered Kenny, "Is that where all those guns and shit came from?"

"Yeah. I'd say it was a success. We got two laptops full of information, Mole found out some important stuff about what the government's up to, we got all these weapons, and nobody got seriously hurt."

"I got grazed _in__the__head_ by a bullet, Kyle!" shouted Stan.

"You're ok, though! A little bruised and bloody, but you're not seriously injured, and God damn it Stan, we found out some _really__useful_ information! You're just pissed because for whatever reason, you don't like those guys!"

"Kyle-"

"Stan," Kyle interrupted him, "You're acting like a child. Get the fuck over it, I'm not going to deal with you when you're being this way."

Stan turned to Kenny, hoping he'd back him up.

"Sorry dude, I gotta go with Kyle on this one. If you don't like that Christo-whatever guy then just steer clear of him. We could use a few more professional people around here, and those guys sound like they know what they're doing."

Stan spent the rest of the night pouting.

XXX

Unbeknownst to them, Christophe and Gregory were having a similar argument as they arrived home in Louisville, about 40 miles away, Christophe had been muttering obscenities in French during their entire drive. Gregory had done his best to ignore it, as he usually did when the moody Frenchman got into one of these moods, but after nearly an hour of it he'd had enough.

"What on earth is your problem?" he asked, as he unlocked their front door.

"You know."

"No, I'm afraid I don't, Christophe."

"Zat little beetch we worked with tonight. 'Boo 'oo, I got scratched! Don't torture ze enemy, eet's not nice!' What ze fuck does 'e think zis ees? 'e acts like these are not life or death situations. Eet pisses me off!"

"Yes, and getting all worked up over it is so productive."

"I do not care eef eet is productive!" Christophe shouted as he went into their bedroom to change. Gregory went into the bathroom and grabbed their first-aid kit before joining him. He found Christophe sitting on the bed, shirtless and smoking a cigarette.  
>"Darling, I know you won't like this, but I think we should work with them."<p>

"Are you fucking crazy?" Christophe muttered as he examined the wound on his side. It was fairly deep, and still bleeding sluggishly. "Zat Stan ees completely unprofessional. I do not want to 'elp zem."

Gregory sighed. "I think we can come to some sort of arrangement though. Perhaps we could still work on our own, but just send the information we gather up to them. I mean, we're using it, but we could be of much greater help to the larger movement that's going on. You and I alone are not going to overthrow the government, you know."

"I don't give a sheet. I don't want to 'elp those assholes."

"Well then I hope you enjoy working on your own, because I do want to help them, and I'm going to, and you won't stop me."

Christophe glared at his boyfriend, who was cleaning up the gash on his arm. Slowly, his scowl turned into a wounded look he rarely displayed.

"Vraiment, Gregory? You would do zat to me? You would break up ze partnership we 'ave 'ad for almost 20 years, for those sheet'eads?"

Gregory finished wrapping a bandage on his arm, and looked his boyfriend in the eyes.

"Christophe. I don't want to work with anyone other than you. We work well together, and I love you, and I'd like to think we understand each other. And _since_ we understand each other so well, I hope, then you should understand why I'm so eager to help them. Stopping this government is more important to me than anything. It's destroying peoples' lives, and taking away all our rights. I don't want to do anything to disrupt our relationship, but if you're going to be obstinate about something so petty, I am not going to sit here and let you stop me from doing something that I believe is right. I'm sorry, but I think we could do a lot of good here, and if you can't see that then I must go outside of our normal routine."

Christophe stared at him sadly for several long moments, the wound on his side completely forgotten.

"I do not like eet," he said at last.

"Duly noted. Now if you'll let me, I can put some stitches in that gash of yours, and then perhaps I can think of a way to make it up to you."

Christophe permitted him to do so.

XXX

Ummmm, I'm not really thrilled with this one, but let me know what you think.


	6. Chapter 5: The Confrontation

I did some serious reworking of this chapter, and I'm a lot happier with it now. Hooray!

XXX

Gregory sipped his tea, as he shuffled through the papers on his desk. After their successful mission (or disastrous mission, depending on whom you asked), he and Kyle had discussed working together, and had decided that initially it would just be on an information-sharing basis, since neither Stan nor Christophe was thrilled about working side-by-side. It had worked to Gregory's advantage, however, because it meant he could still work from home, and he had a whole slew of new information to go through, which was something that made him happy. He enjoyed field work to some extent, and he knew he was good at it, but intelligence was his real strength, and he loved taking the data from random facts, processing it in his mind, and then drawing conclusions from it.

A build up of police and military forces in industrial cities probably meant the government's battle against labor unions was going to turn violent. Government research into late-night consumer spending patterns might mean they were considering a curfew. Decreased spending on farm subsidies might mean that food rations would be cut back yet again.

People were starving in the streets, citizens' rights had been stripped away from them one by one, and anyone who openly spoke out against the government was either thrown in jail or executed. The question was, what could be done about it?

Gregory knew early on that an underground peoples' movement would probably be the only effective way to fight what was going on in the country. The government had increased military spending so much that their forces were innumerable. And as the economy had worsened, their forces only grew stronger, as military jobs were one of the only things available to people as a means to support themselves and their families.

Fear was the biggest motivator. New recruits, who joined the military simply as a way to survive, would wind up convinced that everyone was out to get them, and that they had to strike first and strike hard against the dissenters. It only took some simple brainwashing, which was much easier than most people imagined.

The worst part was that conditions had become pretty dire before most Americans noticed it. President Graham had been elected fair and square... it wasn't until after he was in office that things took a turn for the worst. He began stripping away their rights one by one, all in the name of national security. At first it was done by legal means, and the American people were just too apathetic to notice what was going on. But once the President's personal army became strong enough, he cast aside all illusions of legality, declared himself President for Life, and disbanded the House and Senate, essentially making himself a dictator. Anyone who tried to oppose him in the open was murdered, so soon most people just stopped trying. There was unrest, to be sure, but most people were just too afraid to do anything.

Gregory had always valued defending freedom above his own life. He hadn't even had to think twice about starting resistance work. He'd already been in the field for most of his life, gathering information on injustices and underground crime rings. Working against the government hadn't been much of a transition for him, or for Christophe for that matter. They'd already done it once when they were children, so what was the difference now?

Gregory sighed, and set down the map he was examining. He'd invited Stan and Kyle over for tea, hoping to smooth Stan and Christophe's ruffled feathers. He knew it was a long shot, but it was worth a try at least. And, despite the fact that he and Christophe almost never had company, Gregory really loved entertaining guests. He was looking forward to this afternoon, and was desperately hoping nothing would go wrong.

He went into the kitchen to tidy it up and prepare some snacks, and then headed into the bedroom to get changed and wake Christophe, who'd been on a late night mission the night before and was still in bed, despite it being nearly three in the afternoon.

Gregory lowered himself onto the bed, and leaned over his exhausted boyfriend, planting kisses on his face. Christophe hated being woken up, especially after a mission, so Gregory always did it with a lot of care and affection, hoping to put him in a good mood. Christophe was completely unresponsive to Gregory's kisses, so he went for Plan B, unzipping his boyfriend's pants and pulling his cock out. It was never a challenge to get Christophe hard, asleep or awake, and today was no exception. Gregory had only to stroke him a few times before Christophe's body started responding to his ministrations. He moaned and shifted in his sleep as Gregory started to work the foreskin over the head of his dick. Christophe's eyes fluttered open as Gregory took his entire length into his mouth.

"J'espérais que ce n'était pas juste un rêve," he muttered sleepily, sitting up halfway to regard his boyfriend. "Ees zis my wake-up call?"

Gregory looked up at his sleepy boyfriend, but didn't respond. He ran his tongue up the shaft and licked at the head, before taking him into his mouth once again, working down the length until he felt it hit the back of his throat. Christophe threw his head back and moaned unabashedly- though he was normally a stoic man, in bed he always responded with abandon. He felt Christophe's hand in his hair, urging him on.

It didn't take long-it never did when Christophe first woke up. A few minutes of bobbing his head and a few well-placed strokes of his hand and Christophe gripped his hair with an iron fist and released into his mouth, mumbling endearments in French.

Christophe flopped back onto the pillow, as Gregory kissed his way up his body, finally coming to rest on top of him, straddling his waist.

"Morning," he said, kissing Christophe on the face. Christophe laughed.

"Eet ees, what? Some time after three?" he asked, reaching for Gregory's fly as he nodded a confirmation.

"No, darling, we need to get moving. We have guests coming over, remember?"

"I can feel zat you want eet. And I am een no 'urry to get out of bed," he replied, groping at Gregory's crotch, feeling his erection through his pants.

Gregory bit his lip, trying not to react to his boyfriend's insistent hand. "Chris, _no_, we don't have time for this."

"Zen I will be quick," he replied, before grabbing Gregory's hips and flipping him onto his back, grinding his crotch into him.

Gregory's resolve did not last long.

XXX

Gregory was in the shower when Stan and Kyle arrived. Though Christophe had tried to dissuade him, there was no use in trying to talk him out of a shower once he started to think about it. Christophe answered the door with a scowl. He knew it was his own fault that Gregory hadn't had enough time to bathe before the boys came over, and that only made him angrier. This little tea party was all Gregory's idea, and welcoming people he didn't even like into his house, a place that he considered a safe haven, and didn't like having others invade, was not on his short list of things he enjoyed. He ushered his "guests" into the small sitting room to the left of the door, and after a perfunctory explanation went to get his boyfriend out of the bathroom, where he had apparently finished his shower and was combing his hair.

"Zey are 'ere, so get your ass into some pants and come take care of your guests."

"I love you too, _mon__cher_." Gregory called mockingly at his boyfriend's retreating back.

Stan and Kyle looked expectantly at Christophe as he returned to the living room. He said nothing, though, and sat down across from them, crossing his arms and glaring out the window. By the time Gregory came in with a plate of sandwiches, the air was thick with tension.

His laugh alerted everyone to his presence, and Christophe and Stan's glares turned to him, both knowing full well that he was laughing at them, but Kyle gave him a relieved smile.

"Hello, sorry I'm late. _Someone_ kept me from getting ready on time," Gregory said, giving Christophe a fake, sweet smile.

Christophe didn't respond, but just grabbed a sandwich from the plate Gregory had set on the table and stuffed it into his mouth.

"This is a nice house," said Kyle, awkwardly trying to make conversation.

"It's not really what I'd picture you in," added Stan, reaching for one of the sandwiches, "I figured you'd have some posh mansion with, like, toy poodles running around or something."

Christophe snorted at that, "Well what do you know about us? Rien."

"We bought it together as soon as we were done with school. It might be quaint, but it serves our purposes. I rather like it."

"Why Louisville though?" asked Kyle, "I mean it's not exactly high society out here."

"Oh, well, it's nice to be within walking distance of all the restaurants and bars, when we're in the mood for that sort of thing. And it's within short driving distance of Denver, which is nice. And anyway, we don't care about the 'high society' business... we don't often socialize with anyone except each other, really."

"I can see why," mumbled Stan. Kyle kicked him under the table.

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of the tea kettle going off.

"Pardon me, I'll be right back," said Gregory as he excused himself.

As he left the room, Stan and Christophe resumed their glaring contest.

"You guys, stop it," said Kyle, forcefully, but neither man responded. "Stan, can I speak to you in private?"

Stan curtly nodded, and they went into the next room, with Christophe giving them dirty looks as they went. They were both idiots if they didn't think he could hear their conversation.

"Stan," started Kyle quietly, "You can't behave this way. Gregory and Christophe were kind enough to invite us over, obviously in an attempt to patch things up, and you're being rude!"

"Kyle, it's obvious that that French asshole doesn't want us here. _He's_ the one who was rude first. I told you, he's just a dick. I don't want to be here anymore."

"What is your problem?" asked Kyle, his voice rising enough that Gregory peeked into the room to see what was going on, "What happened to the professional leader you're supposed to be? You _never_ act this way!"

"Because I don't like people treating me like shit!" Stan shouted, red in the face, "From the second we got here he's been looking at me like I'm some bug that crawled out of the ground!"

"...I don't think he minds bugs in the ground, Stan, he spends half his life digging in dirt."

"Oh ha ha. That's isn't the point! The point is he's an asshole, and he acts like he's better than us, and dammit I'm not going to sit here and let him treat me that way!"

"Um," started Gregory, heading back to the kitchen with the tea kettle, "I'm terribly sorry if we've made you uncomfortable, Stan. That wasn't my intention at all."

"Well, what about him?" Stan said, pointing at Christophe, who hadn't moved from his chair and was watching the scene in front of him like it was an interesting play. "Obviously _he's_ enjoying making us uncomfortable!"

"Ah, well, I _had_ hoped he might behave himself a little better, but apparently I was mistaken," he answered, giving Christophe a reproachful stare. Christophe responded by lighting a cigarette, which he knew would annoy Gregory even further. The living room was the one room in which he wasn't allowed to smoke.

"Really, Christophe," Gregory said, snatching the cigarette away, "You're like a child sometimes. A bratty, badly-behaved child who deserves a spanking."

"Promise?" he asked, as he stood up to leave the room.

"Where are you going?" Gregory asked, more outraged than Christophe had seem him in ages.

"Back to bed. Zis ees boring, and I am tired."

He went back to their room, shutting the door and pulling his pants and shirt off before climbing under the sheets. The three hour nap he'd taken early had definitely not been enough.

He heard Gregory and Stan's conversation continue, quietly at first, but within a few minutes Stan was shouting again. He could hear Kyle attempting to calm him down, and couldn't hear what Gregory was saying, but it was in that falsely polite, placating tone that never worked when he used it on Christophe. Usually it only made Christophe angrier, and it sounded like it was having the same effect on Stan, since after only a few minutes the front door slammed, and the house became silent once more.

Christophe had removed himself from the situation hoping that something like this would happen. He knew the way he was acting wasn't helping them get along with Stan, but he wanted to show Gregory that it wasn't just his bad attitude that was the problem here.

The bedroom door opened, and Gregory heaved a weary sigh.

"Are you happy?" he asked.

"Should I be?" Christophe responded, rolling over to face him as he sat down on the bed.

"I just wanted to have a nice little tea party," Gregory said sadly, "I don't know why the two of you couldn't have put aside your differences for one afternoon."

"I don't know why you thought we would be able to."

Gregory just sighed, and left the room.

Christophe rolled away from the door, pulling the blankets up to his shoulders. It took him a while to realize that hovering over his sense of vindication was a feeling he very rarely had. Guilt.


	7. Chapter 6: One Day More

Hey everyone! Thanks a bunch for all the reviews! Here's some... stuff. It's long! YEAH!

XXX

It had been a few weeks since Gregory's disastrous tea party. Christophe hadn't spoken to "those two", as he called them since then, but he was fairly certain that Gregory and Kyle were speaking on a regular basis. The two seemed to get along pretty well, though Christophe attributed this simply to the fact that they both loved nitpicking their boyfriends. In reality, it was simply that they were both very goal-oriented, and since they had the same goal, they enjoyed working together. In the meantime, Christophe had been going on several missions a week, getting information to Gregory, who shared it with their new partners. It was working out well for everyone, and the arrangement had kept everyone in good spirits. Until tonight.

Christophe was chain-smoking. Not that this was anything new for the Frenchman, but it was usually due more to habit than stress. And he almost never chain-smoked in the house. Gregory would put up with a cigarette here or there, but he had never liked the smell of smoke in the house, so if Christophe was in the mood for chain-smoking, usually he'd go sit on their small deck, or go for a drive.

But Gregory was not home, which was the cause of Christophe's tension. He'd been due back a few hours ago, and he hadn't called, hadn't picked up when Christophe called. Something was wrong, and Christophe was taking his stress out on his lungs.

He sat on the plush green sofa, staring at the door, and glancing at his phone every few minutes. Gregory had driven up to Fort Collins earlier in the day to pick up a few things and talk to a few people. He was supposed to be back long ago, and _damn__it_, something had definitely gone wrong.

A knock came at the door, and he jumped up to get it, hoping whoever was there would have some answers for him. He sighed and grumbled when he opened the door to reveal Stan and Kyle.

"Sheet. You people. I am not een ze mood to deal with you. Gregoryees not 'ere right now."

"He isn't?" Kyle asked, "We were supposed to be meeting him here. Where is he?"

"'e 'as not come 'ome yet. I do not know where 'e ees, and I am stressed out enough worrying about 'im without 'aving to deal with vous."

Christophe heard Stan grumble something under his breath, but ignored him.

"Look," Kyle started, pushing past Christophe to enter the house, "Me and Stan drove a long way to get here, and we were under the impression that Gregory wanted to speak to us about something pretty important. So if you don't mind, we'll just wait until he gets back."

And with that he threw himself down onto the sofa Christophe had previously been occupying, and motioning for Stan to sit next to him.

Christophe glared at the two of them for a minute, before sitting in the armchair across from them, and resuming his chain-smoking. They spent twenty awkward minutes that way, with Stan and Christophe glaring at each other, and Kyle awkwardly shuffling his feet, before a double rap came from the front door.

Over their many years of doing field work, Christophe and Gregory had worked out a series of knocks as a means of communication. And the double rap meant trouble.

"Get up!" he hissed at Stan and Kyle.

"What?"

"Get up, and go to my bedroom! Eet's zat first door zere. Zere ees a few guns under ze bed. Take zem out, but stay een ze room! Eef you get a chance to shoot whoever zis fucker ees, take eet. Eef theengs get too dangerous you can climb out ze window."

"Wh-"

"GO! And be quiet!"

Stan and Kyle hastily complied, finally realizing the gravity of the situation, and Christophe pulled his gun out of his leg holster as he approached the door. He threw it open, as he swung his gun up to meet whoever might be there. The sight he saw was not one that made him happy.

In front was Gregory, beaten, bloody, and barely conscious. His face was covered in blood from a gash near his temple, his clothes were a mess, and he had a sloppy-looking tourniquet over his right pant leg, which was drenched in blood. He was slumped partway over, and his upper body was being supported by a man in a suit, who was standing behind him with a gun pointed at his head. The man sported a few bruises on his own face, no doubt from trying to take Gregory down. Christophe could tell that even if he had been outnumbered, Gregory hadn't gone down without a fight, because behind that man was another one, also with his gun drawn, but clearly occupied with holding a handkerchief to his bloodied nose.

Christophe just stared at the men, and then quirked his eyebrow. "Can I 'elp you?"

"Inside!" the man in back hissed.

Christophe backed up slowly, still pointing his weapon at the man holding Gregory. The second man shut the door behind himself, and then locked it. He then aimed his gun at Christophe.

"Ok, you're going to give us some information, or your little friend here is dead."

"I theenk 'e would rather die zan 'ave me give away information zat could betray us. Who are you?" Christophe asked, backing farther into the house.

"We're with the government, and that's all you need to know."

"Ah, ze government. Fuck you, fascist peegs."

Christophe still had his weapon drawn, and was slowly backing through the living room, hoping the men would keep inching toward him. So far, so good. They were close to the bedroom door. For once, he was glad Stan and Kyle were there.

"Save it, Frenchie. Either you're going to tell us what we want, or you're both dead."

"Va te faire foutre, connard. Gouvernement fasciste chien."

"Yeah, yeah. We want to know your sources. We want to know who you're working with. You will tell us or-"

A loud shot rang out, and the man in back fell to the floor with a bullet in his head. Before the man holding Gregory could react to what was happening, Christophe aimed and shot him in the head as well.

Gregory started to fall the second the man released him, but Christophe managed to catch him before his head hit the floor.

"Mon amour," he murmured, gathering his wounded boyfriend into his arms, "Are you ok?"

Gregory weakly rolled his eyes at the stupid question. "I've been better, love." he groaned, "I've got a bullet in my leg, among other things."

Christophe picked him up and carried him to their bed, passing a still stunned Stan and Kyle.

He gently set Gregory on the bed, and started pulling his torn and bloodied clothes off so that he could treat his wounds.

"Who fired zat shot?"

"That was me," said Stan. Christophe gave him an even stare for a minute, before breaking eye contact.

"Eet was a good shot. Thank you. You probably saved 'is life."

Stan just nodded curtly at him, as Kyle asked how he could help Christophe with Gregory.

"Eh, I need a rag and some water. And under ze bathroom sink ees a box with first aid things in eet, I need zat. Merci."

He turned his attention to his boyfriend on the bed, whose face was pale and sweaty, "What 'appened?" he asked.

"They ran me off the road." he said weakly, "They knew who I was... I don't know how. I don't know if they've been watching us for a while or what, but they knew where the house was as well. We aren't safe here, Christophe."

Kyle had returned with the medical supplies, and set them on the bed, as Christophe began to wash some of the blood off Gregory's face. The wound near his temple wasn't too deep, and Christophe figured he could deal with it after taking care of the bullet still resting in his leg. Stan still hadn't moved, and was watching the scene before him silently.

Gregory spoke up again, as Christophe rummaged through the first aid kit, and pulled a syringe and a bottle of morphine out of the box.

"Morphine?" he asked.

Christophe nodded at him. "I will need to get ze bullet out of your leg. Eet will 'urt eef you do not take anything. Désolé."

Gregory was terrified of needles, though Christophe was the only person who knew it, and he started rambling out of nervousness.

"Oh. Um. They shot through the window first, which is how I got the graze to the head. I was reaching for the gun in the glovebox when they came upon me, and pulled me from the car. They started screaming questions at me... I couldn't understand anything anyone was saying because they were all shouting at once. Then they started to hit me and-"

"Gregory..."

"Yes?"

"Relax, cheri."

Christophe leaned down and kissed him on the lips, and then shoved the needle into his leg. Gregory gave a slight whimper, and then immediately relaxed, as the effects of the morphine kicked in.

XXX

Gregory felt as though he was under water. Everything seemed to be floating and swirling around him, and he was having a hard time concentrating on what was going on in the room. He was in bed, for some reason, and he could tell Christophe was with him, along with other people who kept coming and going. What the hell was he doing here? What was going on?

He felt an odd pressure in his leg, and when he looked at it he saw nothing but red, red, red, and his boyfriend leaning over him at an odd angle. The sight made him feel dizzy and nauseated.

Ah, yes. He'd been shot. He kept forgetting. The dull pleasantness of the morphine made it hard to concentrate on anything, really. He saw Christophe grin at him, and hold up something that shined in the light. He figured it must be the bullet, but found the concept hard to grasp at the moment. He'd never been shot before, and the people darting in and out of the room kept distracting him.

"What's haaappening?" he slurred in the general direction of his boyfriend. The words sounded funny to him. They must have sounded funny to Christophe as well, because he was smirking as he sewed up the wound on Gregory's leg.

"We 'ave to burn ze 'ouse down, cheri. Stan and Kyle are 'elping us pack. Eesn't zat nice?"

Gregory was having a hard time understanding Christophe's accent in his inebriated state.

"What ...burn the.. the house? I don't understand. Why?" he asked in a slightly panicked voice.

Christophe paused mid-stitch to look at his lover for a moment. He'd never had to give him morphine before, and was beginning to wonder if it hadn't been a bad idea. Gregory had never been this loopy before, for any reason. Even when he consumed alcohol he tended to stay in control of himself.  
>"Gregory, you said ze government knows about us," he said, as he went back to stitching, "We are not safe 'ere at all. Nevermind ze two dead government agents een ze living room. Stan and Kyle are going to set us up at zere compound een ze mountains. Eet will not be as comfortable, I am sure, but we will be safer."<p>

Gregory hadn't retained much of what he'd just been told... he felt his eyes filling with tears. The shock of Christophe's words had sobered him up slightly, but he was still unable to control his emotions. He tried to concentrate on the shuffling sounds coming from the next room, as Stan and Kyle packed up the papers in their office, but the room was still spinning, and the events of the evening, and the thought of leaving _their_ home, the home he'd shared with his lover for five years were all weighing down on him. They'd bought the house together, painted the walls. They'd picked out furniture together, although Gregory usually had his way when it came to that. They'd planted the garden together, and made things grow. They'd cooked together, and fought with each other, and made love on nearly every surface in the house. It was theirs, and only theirs. And now they were being forced to leave it.

Gregory was normally a very stoic man. He didn't often show much emotion to anyone other than Christophe, and even that was minimal. But this was all too much for his drug-addled mind to handle, and he began to weep openly.

Christophe had never seen him in such a state, and stared blankly for a few seconds, before tying off his last stitch and climbing up onto the bed to cradle his sobbing boyfriend in his arms.

"Mon amour," he said, kissing his face, "Eet ees just a 'ouse. I know you love eet, but keeping you safe ees much more important to me."

"But it's our life, Chris. Our _life_. It's us together. You know?"

Christophe did have some idea of what Gregory was getting at, but handling his boyfriend in such a rare state of distress was proving difficult for him. Open displays of emotion usually made him very uncomfortable, and he wasn't used to dealing with that from Gregory. So he just held him and kissed him until he noticed Kyle standing awkwardly in the doorway.

"Um. Sorry. We've packed all the stuff in the office. What else should we get?"

"Gregory, I need to pack our clothes. Ees zere anything else you want?"

Gregory wiped at his eyes and tried to think.

"My copy of _Les__Miserables_. And the house plants."

"Ze book of course, but we can not take all ze plants, mon cher."

This brought on a fresh round of tears from the distraught Brit.

"Our plants, Chris, they're like our _children._We can't let them burn!"

Christophe sighed and looked at Kyle again. "Do we 'ave room for plants?"

"Maybe a few. Not all of them," he said, doing a mental inventory of what he'd seen in the house. Nearly every room had several plants in it.

"Ze geranium een ze kitchen, zen. And ze spider plant een ze living room een ze fancy pot... Actually I will get them myself after I pack ze clothes. Maybe I can fit some een my car as well," he said, and then turned back to Gregory, who was still trying to control his sobs, "Cheri, I will get ze plants. I will 'ave Kyle put bandages on you, ok? Zen we will leave."

Gregory nodded his consent, and Kyle came to the other side of the bed to work on his bandages, as Christophe got up to start packing their clothing.

Gregory turned his teary face to Kyle as he knelt down next to the bed. His head was still swimming with the effects of the morphine.

"Do you know about the geranium?" he asked Kyle softly.

"Of course 'e does not," replied Christophe curtly, as he opened their closet door.

Kyle just smiled at him and shook his head.

"It was a gift. Christophe gave it to me after our first night together. He said the red flowers represented his heart, and he was giving it to me because he knew I would keep it alive."

Kyle looked to Christophe, who was steadfastly ignoring the both of them, but he could see his ears were turning pink. Kyle just grinned at his back, and then got to work bandaging up his wounded comrade.

Half an hour later, Stan and Kyle's car was loaded full of paperwork, guns, clothing, and a few houseplants. Christophe's car was usually packed to the brim with weapons, ropes, and other things he used on missions, but he'd managed to pack in a few more plants, and a few of their books. He threw in some food as an afterthought and then went to grab a gas can from the shed.

As Christophe poured gasoline throughout the house, he was beginning to see why Gregory was so upset. Even though he never got attached to places the way his boyfriend did, everything in the house brought back memories, from the clock in the kitchen he'd watched so many times, waiting for Gregory to get home, to the sofa in the living room they'd fought over, because Christophe hated the velvety fabric it was upholstered in. Most of all, he felt bad because he knew burning the house down was breaking Gregory's heart. If he hadn't been so high from the morphine he'd never have shown just how upset he was, but Christophe still would have known. Their house was the first place either of them had ever truly felt at home, outside of their respective home countries. He didn't really want to do it, but it was for the best. It would hide the evidence of the men they'd killed, at least momentarily, and hopefully leave the government's trail cold long enough for them to get somewhere safe. It was a safe thing to do. It was a smart thing to do. But it certainly wasn't an easy thing to do.

He lit a cigarette. Gregory was already laying half-conscious in the back seat of Christophe's car, wrapped in the blankets from their bed. Stan and Kyle were waiting outside. Everything was ready to go. He walked to the front door, and flicked his cigarette onto the sofa. The fire that immediately sprang up was very satisfying, and he stood in the doorway for a moment to admire his work, and to make sure the rest of the room started to burn as well.

Once he was sure his home was doomed, he turned and walked to the car, ready to face whatever was ahead of them.

XXX

Poor Gregory! Um, just in case anyone thinks he's OOC, morphine makes you really, really loopy. You definitely say and do things you probably wouldn't otherwise. I am speaking from experience. =B Anyway, please review, and blah blah blah blah blah.


	8. Chapter 7: In My Life

This is another kind of weird transition-y chapter. With lots of stupid fluff. But hey, whatever. Enjoy and stuff.

XXX

The first thing he was aware of was the sound of tapping coming from across the room. As he became more aware, he noticed that whatever he was laying on was getting light from a nearby window, and it would be quite cozy and pleasant if he knew where the hell he was. Gregory stirred, and attempted to sit up, when every single muscle in his body protested, and a sharp pain coursed through his leg. He flopped back onto the pillow with a moan, and the tapping stopped.

"Well, well, Sleeping Beauty awakens," said a cheery voice.

He squinted in the sunlight to see a young man with a halo of blonde hair leaning over him, with a lop-sided grin on his face.

Gregory attempted to sit up again, slowly this time, but the efforts were in vain. He felt the the cuts and bruises all over his body, and flashes of the government agents attacking him went through his mind. They'd beaten him half to death, but he'd refused to give them any answers. At the time all he could think was that he wished he could see Christophe one more time before he died, but that had seemed impossible. It was only through the agents' own stupidity that he had gotten his wish, and had survived the assault at all. Attacking an angry mercenary in his own home was a bad idea, especially if you were trying to use his own boyfriend as bait.

He didn't remember much else about the night before... wait, had it been the night before?

"How long have I been out?"

"Umm, almost two days, dude. You were really messed up when they brought you up here, and you sort of woke up a few times and had some water and peed and stuff, but you were so out of it that I'm not surprised you don't remember. But your hot French boytoy said you'd be a pain in the ass if you were up in your condition, so he's been keeping you sedated."

Gregory rolled his eyes as he rested his head against the pillow again. Now that he was more awake he could tell he'd been sick. His body still had a vague feverish feeling that usually came for him during a recovery period.

"Where are we? And where is _he_? And who are _you_?" he demanded.

"This is the Resistance base. We're a little way West of Golden. Your pissy boyfriend is off running errands of some kind. Buying shovels or lube or whatever the fuck. My name is Kenny, and he left me here to play Nurse for you. Would you like a sponge bath?" he said with a cheeky grin.

"No, thank you," replied Gregory shutting his eyes. The name Kenny sounded familiar... he thought perhaps Kyle had mentioned him before, but it was so damn hard to remember anything with his head pounding the way it was.

"Are there any painkillers around?" he asked Kenny, who was still giving him a leering grin.

"Ummm, well Chris said not to give you anything strong... I guess you tripped balls and then cried like a little girl when you were on morphine, huh? But there's like Advil or something."

Gregory raised an eyebrow at Kenny calling his boyfriend by such a familiar name, and at the perceived insult, but didn't say anything. He felt too awful to argue with anyone at the moment.

"Advil would be fine, thank you. And I need water, please. I'm parched."

"Advil and water coming right up!" he said as he left the room.

Gregory relaxed against the bed he was laying on, which he could now see was some sort of pull-out sofa, and did a mental inventory of his injuries.

There was his injured leg, of course. The bullet had hit him in the upper thigh, and though Christophe had done a good job of extracting the bullet, it still hurt like hell, of course. He knew he'd have a spectacular scar there. He had a deep gash near his temple from where another bullet had grazed him. Otherwise it was mostly just bruises, mostly on his ribs, where they'd kicked him as he laid prostrate on the ground, and around his neck, where one of them had briefly strangled him after Gregory had made a rather rude remark about the man's sexuality.

He'd been injured worse before-he had once been stabbed in the chest as a teenager and spent a week in a hospital bed with a punctured lung-but he was still irritated at the whole affair. He knew he'd be out of commission for quite some time with his leg being in such bad shape, and that meant more danger for Christophe.

He pushed those thoughts out of his head as Kenny returned with a glass of water, and a plate with a bottle of pills and a few pieces of toast on it.

"I thought maybe you should eat something," he said, setting it down on a nearby table, "I get the feeling your boyfriend would be pissed if he thought I was neglecting you."

"Thank you. Any idea where he is?" asked Gregory, biting into a piece of toast.

"Ohhh, he's off buying construction materials for you guys. That's kind of how it works around here... La Resistance can't afford to finance everyone's housing, so if people want to stay at this camp they have to build a place themselves... or pay someone else to do it."

"So, he's building us a house?" Gregory asked incredulously. Christophe might be good at manual labor, but Gregory had never known him to even attempt construction work of any kind. He'd once tried to repair the shed in their backyard and wound up burning it down out of frustration.

"Eh, sort of," said Kenny as he stole a piece of toast off the plate, "Um, after talking about it with Stan and Kyle, they agreed to let him put on an addition to this building. So he's doing that, but me and some other guys have been helping him because he's kind of retarded at it. Not that I don't have a million other things to do. But it'll be nice when you guys aren't sleeping in our office anymore, even if it is cute to come in here in the morning to find him cuddling with you."

Gregory swallowed some of the Advil and looked around, not deigning to acknowledge Kenny's comment. He hadn't really realized where he was, but sure enough there were a few desks in the room, covered in papers and maps, and some guns lined up against one wall. There was also another sofa nearby, and a large TV against the wall.

He also noticed all the things Christophe had saved from their house piled up in one corner, with a few of their house plants balanced carefully on top. He sighed, upset that this was to be their life now. House-mates with several people he hardly knew, none of whom Christophe was likely to get along with very well. He missed their house already.

XXX

He awoke some time later to a gentle hand stroking his hair. The room was dark, but there was enough light to make out a vague outline, and the smell of cigarettes and dirt was a dead giveaway.

"Hey," Gregory managed to croak out, groggy from sleeping way too much.

"Allo," came the whispered response, "'ow are you feeling?"

Gregory tried to sit up before answering, but moving at all still hurt. Christophe put an arm behind his back and stuffed a few more pillows behind him.

"Ugh, I'm sore all over. And my leg is so stiff I can barely move it."

Christophe handed him a glass of water and some Advil.

"Take zis. You 'ad an infection een your leg. Je suis desoleé, mon cher. That ees why I kept you sedated for so long... I thought eef you were awake you'd get bored and want to move around, even een your condition."

"Mm, probably."

Christophe pulled the blankets half off Gregory's prone form and began to massage his wounded leg, slowly loosening the stiff muscles. Gregory felt content to just lay there for a few minutes, letting Christophe's capable hands ease his discomfort a little.

"Are you really building us a room? With that Kenny chap? I can't even picture it."

Christophe laughed and gently lifted Gregory's leg into the air, stretching his sore muscles.

"Ah oui, sort of. I am mostly there just to lift things. And I dug ze area for ze foundation of course. Does zat 'urt?" he asked, pulling the leg back toward Gregory's body and leaning over him.

Gregory blushed at the position. He was glad it was too dark for Christophe to see. He always had this effect on him, and it was rather embarrassing that after all these years he could be turned on by such a simple movement. Thankfully, or not, the burning pain the movement caused killed any excitement he might have had.

"Um yes, quite a bit."

"Mm, too bad," Christophe replied kissing his forehead, "I think... eet ees time for a bath. You smell."

Without further ado Christophe pulled the blankets off the rest of the way, lifting Gregory with ease and carrying him to the bathroom.

Gregory wrapped his arms around his boyfriend's neck for the short trip, and asked, "How are things going with the guys here?"

Christophe set him down on the closed toilet lid and began to fill the tub with water. The bathroom was small and unfinished, with a cement floor instead of tile, but it had all the necessary amenities.

"Ah, ok. I still do not like Stan much, but we 'ave sort of... come to an understanding, I suppose. Kyle ees ok. Neither of them are 'ere much, though. Kenny... eh... I think I would like 'im a lot eef 'e would stop making suggestive comments all ze time."

"Ah, yes. He said some things to me earlier that were a bit... uncouth. He also called you Chris, among other things."  
>"Eet's an improvement, I assure you. Ze first day 'e called me Pierre, and when I yelled at 'im for zat 'e called me Jacques Cousteau. And zen Enjolras."<p>

"Oh my dear Christophe, you are clearly Grantaire. _I_ am Enjolras."

Christophe smiled and checked the water temperature before shutting off the tap, and then began to remove his own clothing.

"Oh, will you be joining me in the bath? Or do you prefer to get naked when you play nurse?"

Christophe just waggled his eyebrows and reached over to remove the underwear and t-shirt Gregory had been sleeping in. The shirt had once belonged to Christophe, but it was what Gregory usually wore to bed, if he wore anything at all.

Lifting him into the tub, Christophe sat down in the water and settled Gregory between his legs.

"Bien?" he asked, kissing Gregory on the shoulder.

The warm water felt wonderful, loosening his stiff muscles and washing off a few days worth of who-knows-what. Gregory leaned back and sighed.  
>"Yes, very good."<p>

They sat in silence for a while, with Christophe gently running a washcloth over his boyfriend's body, carefully avoiding the darkest bruises, and planting kisses on his neck and shoulders.

"Maybe I should get shot more often if it means you'll be this nice to me."

Christophe snorted against his neck.  
>"Maybe, eef eet means a few days of peace and quiet for me."<p>

Gregory laughed and took the rag from his boyfriend, and began to wash his own face.

"I was very worried about you, you know," Christophe said quietly.

"You were?"

"Ah, oui. Seeing you injured zat bad was... not an experience I'd like to repeat. And zen your leg started to look infected... Ze first day you were 'ere you 'ad a fever of 104. Eet was a bad feeling, knowing I could lose you."

Gregory took one of Christophe's hands in his own and brought it to his mouth, kissing his fingertips.

"Now you know how I feel every time you come home injured. I don't know what I would do without you, to be honest."

"After zis government bullsheet ees done, we should retire from ze business. You could go be a be a big, important businessman or something, and I could... je ne sais pas. Dig ditches I suppose."

"You could stay at home and be a housewife," Gregory suggested, laughing quietly.

"Oh oui, zat would be a good idea. You could come 'ome from work every day and I would 'ave dinner ready for you. And zen you could could complain about what a bad cook I am while you bounce ze children on your knee."

"And by 'the children' do you mean the plants?"

"Yes, of course... ze plants would love to be bounced on your knee."

Gregory laughed again and leaned back against Christophe's chest.

"If I am Enjolras, and you are Grantaire, does that mean we will die together?"

"Oui, mon cher. But not until we are both very old."

XXX

Um. Ahem. Yeah fluff whatever. If Christophe seems out of character, it's because this is how I personally see him. He's kind of a gruff asshole, but he cares deeply about Gregory, and having his beloved boyfriend injured would scare him into being nice for a while, I think. Also peoples' public persona =/= their private persona. Hope that makes sense.

Also a note on Stan and Christophe's relationship- I had them hate each other just for the sake of the plot, but watching the movie again I realized it's totally canon... In the movie Christophe is kind of a dick to everyone, but Stan's the only one he physically fights with... THREE TIMES.

Anyway, because someone asked, my experience with morphine was several years ago, when I was hospitalized with kidney stones. I barely remember anything, other than sobbing and vomiting (lovely experience, let me tell you), but I do remember when it hit my vein it felt like the room was filling with water, and later staring into the mirror thinking, "My eyes are sooooooooooo bluuuuuuuuuuuuuue." and also warning the MRI guys that when I had to climb from the hospital bed to the MRI table, they were, and I quote, "going to see my underooooooos!"

Yeah. It makes you pretty silly.

Anyway, hope you enjoyed this chapter. ONWARD!


	9. Chapter 8: Empty Chairs at Empty Tables

Kyle is what you would call a creature of habit. On any given day, he followed at least some semblance of his routine, which is as follows: Wake up some time before noon, no matter how late he was up the night before, have breakfast or lunch, hopefully with Stan, and then read the newspaper, searching it for hidden messages placed there by Wendy, who happened to be an editor for the Denver Post. After that he would usually analyze data, or help Stan make plans, and sometimes carry out missions with him or one of their combat units. Then it was off to bed (again, hopefully with Stan), preferably with some sex as the cherry on top of his day.

Kyle did not like it when his routine was thrown off. But when he awoke this morning, he knew something was wrong. The area of Denver in which they lived was usually fairly quiet, but this morning there was a lot of noise on the street. People were shouting, and cars were honking their horns, and dammit if it hadn't woken Kyle up much earlier than he had planned to get up.

Giving up on sleep, he decided to head downstairs for a cup of coffee. He pulled himself out of bed with a cranky groan, and made his way out of their bedroom. Halfway down the stairs, however, he realized something was very, _very_ wrong. There were about a dozen people all crowded in his tiny living room, gathered around the TV with anxious looks upon their faces.

"What the hell is going on?" he asked the room at large.

Stan stood from his place on the sofa- Kyle hadn't even seen him there because the room was so packed- and walked him into the kitchen to get him some coffee.

"There was a coup last night. The President is dead."

The President, now that was a laugh. He had risen to power three years ago, with the help of his slick adviser, and thousands of minions, all trained in combat. He was voted into power, it was true, but the votes had been bought with terror and threats. And once he was in office he declared himself President for Life, and anyone who spoke up against him was usually found brutally murdered a few days later. If he had been assassinated, well, perhaps La Resistance could disband and they could go on to live normal, peaceful lives.

Kyle's face must have betrayed these happy thoughts, because Stan sighed as he handed him his cup of coffee. "It isn't what you're thinking, Kyle."

"What?"

"It wasn't one of our people. We're pretty sure it was an inside job. Apparently the President's adviser is about to give a speech. That's what they're waiting for," he gestured toward the living room, "We think... Well, we think he's going to take over as President."

_No._"...Can he do that?" Kyle asked with fear in his voice.

"Kyle, I don't think this administration has exactly shown the highest regard for the law. I'm sure they'll pin the blame on someone, and then... _he_will take over, even though I'm almost positive the coup was his doing. And we'll be in more danger than ever."

Kyle felt his heart racing, and Stan put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "We'll take this one day at a time," and with that he laced his fingers with Kyle's and led him into the living room to see if the news conference had yet begun.

They didn't have to wait long. Soon the broadcast turned from an anxious anchorman's face, to the Presidential seal. Then appeared a face with which Stan and Kyle were all too familiar.

"Good morning, my fellow Americans," began Eric Cartman, with a smug look on his face, "As you all probably are aware by now, at 2:43am, Eastern Time, President Graham was assassinated. Under the new law he created last week, I am now your President.

As such I will bring swift and immediate justice upon those who committed this heinous crime. We believe the main perpetrator was this red-headed Jew here, named Kyle Broflovski."

He held up Kyle's senior yearbook photo, that Kyle himself had given him years ago. Kyle's eyes went wide, and he heard Stan gasp beside him.

"He may have had other accomplices, though the military is still investigating this matter. If you see Kyle it's crucial that you do not approach him yourself, but call the police or alert the nearest military guard. We must not let this crime go unpunished, and we want him taken alive so that we can bring him to justice properly. I suggest that Kyle turn himself in for his own good. We will find you, Kyle. And you will be punished. And anyone found assisting him in any way will also be brought to justice."

At this statement Cartman narrowed his eyes at the camera, and Kyle felt as though he was looking right at them through the screen. He glanced up at Stan, who didn't return the look, but tightened his grip on Kyle's hand as Kyle stepped closer to him.

"Due to our current circumstances, I am also declaring Martial Law throughout the entire United States. I am now imposing a strict 8pm curfew, and anyone found on the streets after that hour will be dealt with swiftly and harshly. These restrictions are in place for your own safety, and not abiding by them threatens the safety of all. We must all stand together during these troubled times, and I anticipate the cooperation of all American citizens.

In conclusion, I just want to say that I look forward to my new role as your leader. Times will be tough, but with your cooperation we can make America the Greatest Nation on Earth once more. Thank you."

And with that the screen went back to the Presidential seal.

Kyle felt as though he was having a heart attack. There definitely was not enough air in the room. He felt Stan at his side, trying to get his attention, but even that couldn't break him out of the panic attack he felt coming on. He blindly let Stan lead him from their living room, where everyone else was still sitting in stunned silence, up to their bedroom. It wasn't until Stan shut the door behind him that Kyle broke out of his stupor, and clung to Stan's shoulders for dear life. He wasn't sure when he'd started crying, but now his breath was coming out in ragged sobs, as Stan held him close and rubbed his back.

"Wh-what are we going to do? Oh my God he's actually going to kill me, Stan."

"We won't let him, Kyle. _I_ won't let him," replied Stan, kissing his hair.

"Y-you can't stop.. I mean... Jesus, Stan, _everyone_ will know who I am now. I w-won't even be able to go to the grocery without being arrested. Oh my God. I c-can't believe..."

Kyle was still having a hard time breathing, so Stan led him to their bed and made him sit down with him, wrapping his arms around him and petting his hair.

"Kyle, honey, it's not like the things we were doing before weren't enough to get us arrested-at best. We could have been executed for nearly everything La Resistance has done at this point. I know you're scared because he put your picture up on the TV but, you know, it just means that we'll have to move up to our main base. Ok? It'll be ok."

Kyle remained unconvinced, but buried his face in Stan's neck and nodded. There was a big difference between being an anonymous resistance fighter and number one on the FBI's Most Wanted. Before he could pretend to be an average guy, hiding their illegal activities behind the front of the coffee shop, but this was different. People would be _actively_ looking for him. People would know his face and assume he was an assassin. He was absolutely terrified.

XXX

It was just after 7pm when they finally made it to the mountain base, the treacherous dirt road feeling that much more dangerous due to the encroaching darkness. Stan had no intention of living in Denver without Kyle, so they'd had to pack both their things into their car. And then there was the stress of getting through the numerous roadblocks. Kyle had been terrified that they'd be searching all the cars, or that maybe Cartman had alerted the troops to Stan's relationship with him, but the guard that waved Stan through as Kyle hid in the back under a pile of blankets in the back either didn't know who Stan was, or was just too busy to notice, even though he'd briefly checked his ID. Half of Denver was in the process of being destroyed by rioters, so the few cops and military men who were assigned to the roadblocks were probably too distracted to properly do their jobs.

The second they pulled up beside their house at the base, Kenny came running out to greet them. Kyle wasn't even halfway out of his seat before Kenny tackled him, looking more nervous than Kyle had ever seen.

"I was so God damn worried about you, man, oh my God," he exclaimed, hugging Kyle tight.

"I tried calling, dude," said Stan, as he popped the trunk and started pulling things out, "All the cell lines were fucked up though. I guess it's to be expected, but it was still frustrating."

"Yeah, I was trying to call you guys, too," replied Kenny, finally releasing Kyle, who was still looking incredibly anxious over the day's events, "I was going to say something in code, like, "Bring me some Kosher food! Or something."

That made Kyle laugh for the first time that day, and Kenny put a hand on his shoulder as he let out a shaky breath.

"You doing ok, dude?" he asked.

"Um. I've been better, but... I think I'll be ok. Um. Is my brother here?"

"Yeah, he's working in the clinic as usual. He'll be real glad to see you, too. He's been up my ass all day about where you were."

Kyle turned to Stan. "I know we need to unload and stuff, but do you mind if-"

"Go find your brother, Kyle," Stan interrupted.

Kyle took his cue and broke off in a run toward the small clinic they had on site, where Ike had been working as sort of a half-assed doctor for the last year. He hadn't made it all the way through med school before he'd moved to the base to help out, but he still had enough skills to be useful.

"Is Kyle ok?" asked Kenny.

"Oh, he's... well no, he's kind of a mess right now. I can't blame him. I think we'll both be fairly safe up here, but he's scared. You know how Cartman always got to him. I mean other than the obvious, very real threat, I think he's got like a major phobia about the whole thing. Understandably."

Kenny helped him pull a large box from the car, and they both headed toward the house, as Stan asked how things were going at the base.

"Oh, fine" Kenny answered, "Christophe and Gregory are fun to fuck around with, cause they both get really uncomfortable when you bring up their relationship. Gregory's a really good cook, which is awesome. Their room still isn't quite done though, so they're still sleeping in the office, which is a bitch. I walked in on them fucking the other day; it was kind of hilarious, really. You should have seen how red Gregory's face got. ...And the rest of him, I think he was blushing all the way down to his ass."  
>"I meant big-picture stuff, Kenny. I don't really care about Christophe and Gregory having sex in the office. Although, ew."<p>

"Well you'll care once you're living with them, trust me. It seems like they're always either bickering or humping each other."

He paused as they entered the house and peeked into the office. Christophe and Gregory were on the sofa, having a quiet conversation, but Gregory broke into a smile when he saw Stan was there.  
>"Oh thank goodness you're here. Is Kyle alright, too?"<p>

Stan nodded, taken aback by Gregory's relieved face.

"Good. Would you gents like some help?"

Stan just nodded and said thanks, and he and Kenny continued on to Stan and Kyle's bedroom. They could hear Christophe yelling at Gregory to keep his "wounded, British ass" on the sofa before he hurt himself again.

"Well," continued Kenny as if he hadn't been interrupted, "Big picture, um. We've got about 50 new recruits, who are all on house-building duty at the moment. They think this winter's going to be bad, so everyone's kind of panicking. But we also just bought four huge new generators, so we should be good for that at least. I think with this assassination bullshit we'll probably get a lot more recruits... That fat fuck's probably going to enact all kinds of ridiculous new laws."

"I don't doubt it," said Stan, setting his box down on the bed.

"So that could be a good or a bad thing," Kenny continued as they headed back out of the bedroom, "I mean new recruits aren't going to be able to do much if the curfews and shit are too ridiculous. We'll have to see. Anyway, the _really_ good news is I finally got in touch with Craig, who's been in DC making contacts. He's trying to hook us up with a resistance group out there, and he said he might have made contact with someone really big on the inside. He wouldn't say who, but he'll hopefully be heading back here in a few days and we can figure all that shit out."

Kenny paused as Christophe passed them in the hall, carrying a huge box. He smacked him on the ass, which only earned him a cold glare from the stoic Frenchman, but Gregory gave an irritated huff as he limped out of the office.  
>"I was going to offer to cook dinner for everyone, but I won't bother if Kenny's going to keep sexually harassing my boyfriend."<p>

"It's not sexual harassment if he likes it. Any anyway, he's not really my type."

"I do not like eet," interjected Christophe, setting down the box he was carrying and lighting a cigarette.

"I'm almost afraid to ask," said Gregory, limping down the crowded hall toward the kitchen, "but what _is_ your type, Kenny? You seem to hit on everyone."

"Oh, you know, blonde, wavy hair, blue eyes, British accent... the kind of guy who lets out breathy little moans while he's getting fucked."

The mortified look on Gregory's face was _almost_ worth the black eye Christophe gave Kenny.

XXX

Whoa, shit just got _real_. Um. So. I hope maybe someone picked up on my foreshadowing and could tell Cartman was going to be the bad guy. If not... SURPRISE.

Um, so I've had the shittiest couple of months imaginable (from losing my job to having my cat die) and you know what would make me happy? REVIEWS! Pleaaaase review?

Also I'd like to mention that I've thrown in a shit ton of Les Miserables references and it makes me a sad panda that no one's gotten them. Gregory is pretty heavily based on Enjolras from Les Mis, which is only a small part of why I love it so much. And why I love him so much. It's like a South Park/Les Mis mobius double reacharound.


	10. Chapter 9: La Faute A Voltaire

XXX

It had only been four days since Stan and Kyle had moved to their mountain base, but Kyle was already going stir-crazy. He hated having to ask Stan or Kenny to run errands for him whenever he needed anything, and there were way too many people staying in the house. He liked everyone on some level, but it was still getting to him. Christophe and Kenny had busied themselves with training their soldiers for combat, teaching them basic tactics and how to fire guns properly, but Gregory was almost always in the office reading or analyzing data, as his leg had not yet healed enough for him to do much strenuous work, and Stan hadn't left the house much. His concern for Kyle's safety and happiness had made him almost unbearable, hovering over his shoulder at almost all times.

And even without Stan's hovering, the feeling in the air was tense. Cartman had only been President for a few days, and things had already gotten much worse. The riots that had taken place in most major cities had been quelled with a heavy military presence. Thousands of people had been shot on the streets, their bodies left there as a warning. As Kenny had predicted, there had been a massive influx of new recruits, all desperate to flee Denver and the surrounding areas. Kyle knew they'd need all the help they could get if they wanted to defeat the government in the battle he felt was coming soon, but he feared La Resistance was becoming much too well-known, which put them in immediate danger. Cartman would not hesitate to send troops to destroy their base it if he knew about it.

Kyle had been doing paperwork all day, since Stan had gotten out of his hair for once. He was trying to figure out what supplies they were short on, so he could send someone to get whatever they needed before they got too low. Medical supplies and food were always in demand, but they seemed to have enough weapons and ammo at the moment. He set down his pen, contemplating seeing what Christophe and Gregory were doing in the kitchen. The sounds they were making, Gregory's quiet humming, occasionally interrupted by a comment by Christophe, had been Kyle's background noise all day, and the whole house was being filled with a rich, bready scent from whatever food they were preparing. Kyle was about to get out of his seat to look in on them when he heard a knock on the front door. He poked his head out of the office in time to see Christophe answer it with his customary unfriendly look upon his face.

"Allo?" he said, "Who are you?"

"Who the hell are you?" asked the mystery guest, in a drawling, bored voice. Kyle walked toward the door and sure enough, there was Craig, looking filthy and exhausted with a massive backpack on his back.

"Oh, hey Kyle." he said, "Who's this asshole?" he asked, pointing to Christophe, who looked like he was gearing up for an angry retort.

"Come in, come in," said Kyle before Christophe could say anything, "I'll explain everything. You look awful, Craig." he remarked as he helped Craig take off his backpack. It weighed a ton. Kyle wondered what he was carrying in it.

"Oh gee, thanks Kyle. I had to hitchhike across the god damn country while it's practically in a state of war to get back here, and that's the thanks I get?" he sighed, running a hand over his face, "I do feel gross though, dude. ...Can I use your shower?"

"Sure, you know where it is. Should I get Stan and Kenny here so when you're done we can all talk?" he asked, following Craig to the bathroom.

"Yeah," replied Craig, already taking his clothes off despite the door still being open. Kyle blushed and looked away. Like Kenny, Craig had little regard for modesty. "I have a lot of shit to tell you guys and I don't want to have to repeat myself. Maybe we could talk over dinner? Hm?" he hinted.

"Uh, sure. I'll see what we can scrounge up."

"Thanks," said Craig, closing the door in Kyle's face. Kyle was glad he was back, but sometimes he just wanted to punch him in the face so God damn hard. He couldn't wait to see how Craig and Christophe interacted, though. He could just see the fireworks in his head.

With that happy thought he headed to the kitchen to see what could be done about dinner.

XXX

The small kitchen was crowded. They hadn't really built it for more than three or four people, but with the addition of Christophe and Gregory, and Craig's visit, there were now six people packed in tight around the tiny table. But nobody had come to blows yet, despite several verbal scuffles between Craig, Christophe, and Stan. They'd nearly finished the fabulous dinner Gregory had prepared for all of them when Craig cleared his throat.

"So, I have a lot to tell you guys. Listen up."

"Ooh, story time," said Kenny, "Let's all pull up a carpet square."

"A what?" asked Christophe, lighting a cigarette, despite the dirty looks from Kyle, who'd asked him several times not to smoke in the house.

"A carpet square? Like... a square of carpet little kids pull up for story time. You didn't have those in Belgium?" asked Kenny.

"I am from France and you know eet, ass'ole. And non, we did not 'ave "carpet squares" for story time."

"Hey, hi, if you guys are done having a lover's quarrel, the grown-ups need to have a conversation now," drawled Craig with an irritated look on his face.

The room quieted as everyone looked at him expectantly.

"Jesus, thanks. Ok, so as you all know, Kenny asked me to go do some recon work or whatever on the East Coast. I got to DC a few months ago, and had a hard time tracking down the rebel groups there, even though I'd heard rumors about them. But then I met this guy, Joe, at a concert, and he put me in touch with one of the leaders of a small group out there that mostly does stupid anarchist shit like 'discussion groups'. At first I thought it was a dead end, but then one of the guys in the group was actually in an active resistance movement, and after a lot of wheedling I managed to convince him to take me to their base. They're really top secret out there, which is understandable considering their security situation, but it was a pain in the ass anyway. So their leader is this guy named Mark, and though their group is small, he's friends with a lot of the guys in other groups all along the coast. I explained myself thoroughly and after some time he finally trusted me. So now we have connections to several large groups in a bunch of major cities, and we can coordinate a proper revolution, instead of all this stupid guerrilla warfare shit that doesn't accomplish anything."

"That's great," cut in Stan, "but you know, the stuff we're doing out here isn't useless. I mean, not that we can't do more if we're hooked up with those guys, but don't act like we haven't been doing anything out here. I mean even just in terms of morale-"

"Save it, Marsh," said Craig, "I don't care, and I haven't even gotten to the best part yet so shut up for a minute. So I spent some time in New York trying to set up shit with those guys, and then I went back to DC for a bit to wrap up some loose ends. I was about to head home when lo and behold, who should call me? You'll never guess."

"Who?" asked Kyle.

"Guess."

"Who?" asked Kyle again, impatiently.

"Come on, guess."

"God damn it, Craig, just tell us!" said Kenny.

"Fine. It was Butters."

"What?" shouted Stan.

"Who's Butters?" asked Gregory.

"We were friends with him when we were kids... I don't know if you remember him but he was the one who carried the La Resistance flag during the war against Canada. But he was always really impressionable, and he's been, like, Cartman's secretary or something through all this government stuff," explained Kyle, "What did he want, Craig? And how did he get a hold of you?"

"Apparently Cartman's been keeping track of all of us since his rise to power. He knows there's a resistance movement in Colorado, and he suspects you guys, although I guess your coffee shop cover worked well enough for a while, cause Butters said he had no proof against you. ...Although knowing Cartman I'm kind of surprised that mattered at all. But, uh, he knows almost everyone from South Park hates him, so yeah, he's been watching all our movements."

"I wonder if that's how they found out about me and Christophe," said Gregory.

"No idea," answered Craig.

"But wait, Craig, they don't know about the base do they?" asked Kyle.

"I don't think so. Butters didn't say anything about it, and I didn't ask, just in case. But so, ok, apparently Butters has had a change of heart. Yeah, he's kind of an idiot and all, but, you know, he said that pretty early on he figured out that what Cartman was doing wasn't right, but he didn't feel like he could stop it. Like, he was too scared. You know how Cartman is. Butters said he'd wanted to get away from him for years, but didn't know how. He said he was afraid if he betrayed Cartman he'd be killed for it... which he probably would. But then he heard I was in town and thought maybe it was on a mission or something for you guys."

"And you don't think that's suspicious?" asked Gregory.

"Dude, I know you don't know this guy, really, but he's not good at lying. He acts all jittery and nervous when he does anything he's not supposed to be doing. He's gullible and easily swayed, but he's a pretty honest person. I'm sure he thought Cartman was doing the right thing at the start, or was just persuaded against his questionable judgment or whatever, and then realized he was in too deep on something that was too extreme for him."

"So then... what? He wants to join us?" asked Stan.

"No, no, you know he'd be useless to us if he joins us. I mean, what's he going to do, go out and throw glitter on the opposing forces? Go around putting Hello Kitty band-aids on the wounded? No. And he's too scared to leave Cartman anyway. He's going to give us information though, about Cartman's whereabouts and activities, and he's going to give us a heads up about stuff, like if the base is in trouble, or if the army's going to crack down on stuff or whatever."

Stan and Kyle looked at each other uneasily.

"And you really think we can trust him?" asked Kyle.

"Dude, yes. Don't worry your pretty little head about it, ok? I talked to him, it's legit. So. Yeah. That's about it. We worked out some stupid, convoluted code and a fake email account, so he can write to his 'dear old grandma' about clouds or whatever the fuck and hopefully that shit will fly under Cartman's radar. Ok? Cool. Now, I need a smoke and a bed, so if you'll excuse me," Craig said, standing up.

Kyle scowled at Craig calling him pretty, but didn't say anything. He stood to help Stan clear the dishes, as people started to filter out of the kitchen.

"What do you think?" he asked Stan as Craig left with Kenny, probably to go smoke some weed, and Christophe and Gregory headed toward their newly completed bedroom.

"I don't know... He's right about Butters... he's never been able to lie to anyone, and I always thought, you know, him running off with Cartman was really just a result of him being a pushover when it comes to him. I mean remember all the ridiculous shit he got Butters into when we were kids?"  
>Kyle nodded at this.<p>

"But at the same time... yeah, it makes me nervous. I mean maybe Cartman knew Butters was ready to defect, so to speak, and he used that to his own advantage. I don't know. I think we should listen to what he has to say, but be extremely cautious about it."

"I agree," said Kyle, "But about us hooking up with other groups on the East Coast? That's exciting. We should be able to do a lot more now!"

Stan looked wounded at this.

"So you think Craig is right, that La Resistance has been useless so far?"

"Of course not, Stan, but you have to admit that if we want to topple the government, which has been our goal all along, we need more than just a thousand people hiding in the mountains in Colorado. We'll have to figure out what we can all do together, but I think this needs to happen sooner, rather than later. Things are getting bad, fast."

"Yeah, I know," said Stan, somewhat reluctantly. La Resistance had always sort of been his pride and joy, and having its usefulness called into question bothered him.

"I think maybe we should set up a meeting with the other leaders. ...Oh, except I guess I can't go, huh?" said Kyle. He was currently listed at the top of the FBI's Most Wanted list, and couldn't even go to the store for a pack of gum, much less travel across the country to meet with other resistance leaders.

"I wouldn't want to either. I feel like I need to be here," said Stan.

They paused a moment as they suddenly noticed the sounds coming from Christophe and Gregory's bedroom. They could hear the deep rumble of Christophe's voice, and a rather desperate moan from Gregory. Kyle looked very uncomfortable at this.

"But..." continued Stan, "I can think of a couple of guys we could probably send in our places. This one guy is smart and articulate, and tends to get down to business quickly, and the other guy could easily act as his body guard," he said with a smirk, as the sound of Gregory's moans became louder.

Kyle smiled up at Stan. Although he felt bad for wanting to get rid of Christophe and Gregory for a while, Stan was absolutely right about one thing; They would be the best representatives of La Resistance by far, after Stan and Kyle themselves.

And if it meant the house was a little quieter, and he had one less person in his personal space for a bit, well, that worked to his advantage as well. He leaned over and kissed Stan on the mouth

"Come on," he said, taking Stan by the hand, "Let's drown out Gregory and Christophe's disgusting sex sounds with some disgusting sex sounds of our own."

XXX

Ugh, oh my GOD, sorry for the lack of updates. This chapter was a bitch to write, and between that and school and seeing Les Mis on Tuesday (yay!) and prepping my Mole costume for Fort Collins' Tour de Fat, which was today, I've been crazy busy.

There's probably... I don't know... three or four chapters left to go... which I say now, but I never really intended this to be so long in the first place, so who knows? Anyway, thanks for reading and please review! 3


	11. Chapter 10: Plumet Attack

The drive to St. Louis was long and tedious. Driving through Kansas made Christophe wonder just what in the hell he was doing in the US. It was miserable: nothing but corn and flatness. Missouri hadn't been much of an improvement. But it was the best route to the city that had been chosen by resistance leaders for its central location, so that the representatives from both sides of the country might have a bit of a drive, but no one would have to go clear from one side of the country to the other. And they figured being outside of any major political centers might be a little safer.

None of the leaders themselves were going; they had all decided to send representatives in their stead, in case something went wrong. So here Christophe was in a borrowed car, with Gregory in the passenger seat, both of them with forged papers and fake ID's, both nervous about being out in the open. Christophe had been running errands around the mountain base while they were there, but Gregory hadn't left since he'd been brought there, injured. And neither had been more than a few miles from the base since they'd been put on the "Wanted" list. They were both hoping their fake papers would keep them under the radar, and if not, they had an arsenal of weapons hidden throughout the car as backup.

Gregory gave Christophe a nervous smile as they drew nearer to their destination: an abandoned factory on the outskirts of town. He knew Gregory felt especially vulnerable, since he was still walking with a limp, and wouldn't be able to run if needed. Kenny had given him a cane, a rather garish one that made Gregory feel a bit too ostentatious, but it helped, at least. What Kenny was doing with what he called a "pimp cane" was something neither Christophe or Gregory really wanted to know. But even with the cane, it was very slow going for Gregory, since a searing pain would shoot up his leg if he moved too fast.

"Relax," Christophe said, knowing that his boyfriend was probably playing out morbid scenarios in his head, "You are just being paranoid. Eet will be ok, you will see."

Gregory said nothing to this; just went back to staring out his window, a pensive look on his face. Christophe reached over and placed a hand on his thigh, squeezing gently. He knew when Gregory got in these moods there was little that could be done. Once a thought entered his head it seemed to cycle in there until whatever ordeal they were encountering was over.

"I just can't help but feel that something's going to go wrong," he said, finally.

Christophe just rolled his eyes and pulled his hand away. He'd heard this diatribe before. Gregory hadn't thought it was safe for them to leave the base at all, and he'd been insistent that this whole trip was a bad idea. After the first day of planning they'd all stopped listening to his grousing. Stan and Kyle had effectively convinced Christophe that sending him and Gregory as representatives was a good idea, and Gregory wasn't going to let him go alone, despite his hesitation. But Christophe had yet to figure out why his normally stoic partner was so worked up about it.

"I know you think I'm being ridiculous," he started, again, "but I had this feeling the night before I was attacked as well. You can write it off as me being paranoid, or emotionally damaged because of what happened that night, or whatever you want, but you'll be eating your words if I'm right."

Christophe didn't respond as he turned into the factory parking lot. Gregory's mood was starting to unnerve him, and that was the last thing he needed going into a potentially dangerous situation.

The parking lot was mostly empty, save for a few cars close to the building. Christophe climbed out of the car, checking the gun on his hip, before moving toward the building, Gregory limping behind him, leaning on the cane.

Maybe it was just Gregory's paranoia getting to him, but something didn't feel quite right. As they drew nearer to the building, a door opened, and two men stepped out.

"Names and group name?" one of them asked.

"Who wants to know?" asked Christophe, hand hovering near his gun.

"Look, fellas, we assume you're here for the meeting, yeah? But we're not letting you into the building until we know who you are."

Christophe glanced at Gregory warily, his hand now resting upon his gun. Something felt wrong here, but if this set-up was legit they'd never make progress if they couldn't trust these people. And if it wasn't legit... well it was probably too late to do anything about it now. Both the men at the door were armed and weren't shy about letting them know it.

"Gregory Winters and Christophe Chevalier. From Colorado," said Gregory with more confidence than he really had.

"Ah, good, Colorado," said the taller of the two men, approaching them to shake their hands, "We've been expecting you. Come in, come in," he said cheerily, as he nearly pushed the two of them through the door ahead of him. The other man followed behind them.

The room inside was dark, but as the door shut behind them the lights flashed on, at the same moment that Christophe felt a gun being poked into his back. The room was filled with soldiers, all pointing their guns at the two rebels.

"Disarm them," said a voice from behind the wall of men.

Christophe struggled as the man behind him grabbed his arms, wrenching them behind his back. The other man was not as strong as him, and as he got his arms free and started throwing punches, several of the soldiers rushed toward him, throwing him to the ground, grabbing his arms and pulling them back again. He growled in pain as he felt one of his shoulders pop out of its socket, and though he could not see him through the crowd, he could tell Gregory was faring no better from a few feet away, breathing heavily from the floor and occasionally moaning. With so many men attacking him, Christophe simply could not defend himself, and tried not to panic as he felt both his guns being pulled away, as well as the knife he kept in his boot. Gregory had only been armed with a knife strapped under his sleeve, but Christophe had no way of knowing whether they'd found that or not. As the two men were effectively subdued, the man who had spoken earlier emerged from behind his human shield.

"Well, well, well, faggots," said Eric Cartman, "What can you tell me about La Resistance?"

XXX

Stan and Kyle were watching TV in the kitchen when Kenny walked in. It was the news, as usual, but Kenny wasn't in the mood for TV anyway. Craig had forwarded him a rather mystifying email from Butters late last night, and he'd been working it over in his head ever since. He knew they were supposed to speak cryptically, but not so cryptically that neither Craig nor Kenny could figure out what the actual message was.

Stan looked up as Kenny opened the fridge to get himself a beer.

"Kenny, dude, have you heard from Christophe or Gregory today?"

Kenny frowned. "Should I have?"

"I don't know, I guess not. But they were supposed to get in touch with us after the meeting started, and neither of us has heard from them. It was supposed to start a few hours ago, so..."

"And they aren't answering their phones, either," added Kyle, looking worried.

"Huh," said Kenny, sipping his beer, "Well yeah, no, I haven't heard from them at all, but Craig sent me the weirdest fucking email from Butters. I have no idea what it's supposed to be telling me."

"Well what did it say?" asked Kyle.

"Well, you know, he's pretending Craig's his grandma, so it just said, 'Thought you would like this!' and it had a picture of some coffee shop sign, with that frog-looking dude from Star Wars, and it says, 'It's a frap!' on it. I don't get it."

Stan looked as confused as Kenny felt, but Kyle looked like he was about to vomit or pass out, or some combination of the two.

"What?" Kenny asked him.

"You don't remember what the real line is, do you? From Star Wars?"

"What?" said Stan, "It's a trap? …...Oh... fuck."

X

A few hours of intense panicking later, and they still hadn't decided what, if anything, to do. Kyle was in full-on guilt mode, and thought they should send out a rescue team. Stan and Kenny had both tried to convince him that if Christophe and Gregory had indeed been captured, they were probably already dead. Any rescue team they sent out would be killed as well, so there was no point in that. Nevermind the fact that St. Louis was about 13 hours away, so by the time they go there it would almost definitely be too late.

Stan, for his part, was terrified that perhaps one of their two comrades had let the location of the base slip. If the army had gotten a hold of them they were probably being tortured, if they hadn't been outright killed, and who knew what secrets they might be divulging?

It was only Kenny's slightly more level head that convinced both men that they needed to make a plan of action before doing anything. He liked Christophe and Gregory, but there was no sense in them putting their people in danger for the sake of two men. And evacuating the base was an extremely risky venture, so they shouldn't attempt it unless they were positive it was necessary.

Kyle was getting pretty worked up, and seemed like he was on the verge of doing something rash when his phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID, and looked relieved.

"It's Gregory," he said to Stan and Kenny as he picked it up, opening it and holding it against his cheek, "Hello? Gregory?"

"Ah, no," said a voice that Kyle hadn't heard in years, "Don't-don't say my name, please; I'll be shot if they find out I called you. They tap phones a lot."

Kyle put his hand over the bottom of the phone. "It's Butters!" he whispered to Stan and Kenny, before going back to his call, "Hey, uh, can I put you on speakerphone?"

"Sure, but ah, I have to make this quick. I don't want to get caught," said Butters, sounding nervous.

"Ok," Kyle said as he hit the "speaker" button on his phone, "Now, what's going on? What do you know?"

"Ah, Gregory's phone fell out of his pocket when they attacked him, so I took it. I thought I should tell you what's happening. This whole meeting was a trap. Eric already had all the people from the other groups that showed up tortured for information and killed, but Gregory and Christophe are still alive. He knows they're working with you fellas, but no matter what they do to them neither of them will tell him anything. But I think he sees this as his one big chance to get you guys, so I don't think he'll kill them until they tell him where you are."

"And if they don't tell him?" asked Stan.

"I don't know. He'll get bored with them eventually, but he's real determined, so it might be a while."

"Fuck," said Kenny.

"What do we do?" Stan asked, looking at Kyle.

"Look," said Butters, "This is the opportunity you guys have needed, isn't it? You _know_ where Eric is, dang it. Unless one of your guys tells him what he wants to know, he'll probably be here for at least a day or two, trying to get them to talk. So what you fellas do is rally your people, and tell the leaders of the other resistance groups what's going on, and you all come in here with guns blazing and kill that fat asshole. _That's_ what you do!"

"Whoa," said Kenny, staring at the phone, as Stan and Kyle exchanged stunned looks.

"I have to go now, before someone sees me, but I'll try to contact you again if anything changes. Ok? Good luck," he finished, hanging up without even saying goodbye.

Stan, Kyle, and Kenny all just stared at each other in stunned silence.

X

Okaaaay the long awaited (or not) update. Liked it? Hated it? Please review either way. There's probably one more chapter and an epilogue left, and then I am done like a done thing that's done. Yeah.

Also, uh I wrote this after being up for 20 hours on 2 hours of sleep. So if I made any stupid mistakes, feel free to point them out. Sleep deprivation is fun.


	12. Chapter 11: Do You Hear the People Sing?

Gregory always smelled good to Christophe, like something homemade. It was probably just the body wash he used; some kind of natural shit, with oatmeal or milk or some kind of foodstuff in it. Either way, the scent of him always relaxed Christophe like nothing else could.

Right now his scent was mixed with that of sweat, as he ground himself on Christophe's lap. The late afternoon light coming through their office window made his hair shine like an angel's, and the image of him pulled at something deep inside Christophe, the way it always did when they made love. Sure, they argued plenty, but he didn't think he could live without moments like this, when all barriers were struck down, and there was nothing hidden between the two of them.

Gregory reached down to touch himself, but Christophe pushed his hand away before he could, grabbing Gregory's dick himself and stroking it in time to his boyfriend's movements. Gregory let out a grateful moan, and leaned back as far as his arms would allow, grasping Christophe's shoulders for leverage, trying to find the perfect angle without falling off the chair. Christophe loved the way he looked with his head thrown back, eyes closed, as he completely lost himself in the moment. But Christophe was afraid he might be staining himself too much.

"Careful, mon cher, your leg," he said, gripping Gregory's thigh with his free hand.

Gregory didn't stop his movements, or even open his eyes.

"What about my leg, darling?" he asked, panting.

"Your leg, where you were shot. You don't want to-" he stopped himself, staring at Gregory's thigh flexing under his hand, unblemished and perfect-looking, the smooth skin shining in the light. "Where ees your scar?"

Gregory paused his movements for a second, pulling himself back up, giving Christophe a quizzical grin. He wrapped his arms around the Frenchman's shoulders and licked at the sweat gathering on his neck.

"What scar, dear? I've never been shot."

"You were," Christophe insisted, as Gregory began to move on him again, "You were shot, and we burned down... ze... 'ouse? How are we een ze 'ouse?"

"I mmm haven't a clue what you're talking about, Christophe. Perhaps you'd -ah- like to concentrate on the situation at hand? Hmm?"

Gregory's ability to be articulate, even so close to orgasm always kind of annoyed Christophe. But this time he was annoyed for another reason. He _knew_ Gregory had been shot. He distinctly remembered the night he'd had to cut a bullet out of his leg, before burning their house down. Gregory had cried and freaked out over the house plants. That had _happened._Why didn't Gregory remember? How the hell were they back in their old house, which looked like it always had?

"Darling," Gregory said, clearly annoyed with his boyfriend's lack of participation in their current activity, "It must have been a dream. You've had dreams about me getting injured before, haven't you?"

Christophe stared at him in wonder, and then closed his eyes in frustration. A dream?

"Zis was real, though, I know eet was..."

Loud shouting and the sound of someone moaning in pain brought him out of his thoughts. He opened his eyes and he was no longer at home, with his boyfriend warm and safe in his lap. He _was_ in a chair, but instead of being seated comfortably, he was tied tightly to it. _Fuck_, he thought, _I__was__hallucinating._

Gregory was tied to a chair facing him. Three men stood behind him talking quietly to each other, all with arms crossed and scowls upon their faces. Gregory looked like he was close to passing out again. Christophe gathered that the interrogation still wasn't going too well.

It had all become rather routine at this point. The men came in, tortured either Christophe or Gregory while the other watched, shouted questions, and then left when their victim passed out from the pain. Neither of them had eaten or slept properly in days, and they'd been beaten, electrocuted, shot up with drugs, and whipped, among other things. Their captors had seemed to enjoy finding the wound on Gregory's leg when they'd stripped him of his clothing. It was far from being healed, and very tender, and they had spent a great deal of time abusing this weak spot until it was torn open and bleeding again.

Even President Cartman himself had joined a few of these torture sessions, shouting questions about Stan and Kyle's whereabouts and smirking with satisfaction when his prisoners screamed in pain. Still, neither man had answered a single question posed to them.

Christophe could tell the men were starting to get fed up with the pair of them, and wondered how much longer it would be before their patience gave out. He didn't really want to die, but he wasn't sure how much longer he could take this before he completely lost his mind. The worst part, by far, was being in the room when they worked on Gregory. Every anguished cry from the other side of the room was like having a piece of his soul torn out. This was definitely the disadvantage of being romantically involved with your partner.

He thought fondly for a moment of the first time they'd kissed; Gregory had nearly been killed by a former client, and had shown his weak side to Christophe for the first time. He'd loved him for years before that moment, though, and in retrospect realized that Gregory had felt the same way for just as long. They both knew it was risky to be with each other, but what was the point in fighting it? Their feelings for each other could be exploited by an enemy whether or not they were actually physically involved with each other.

He looked over at Gregory as the other men left the room. His head was thrown back like in Christophe's hallucination, but this time with a grimace set upon his bruised and battered face. Christophe could tell he was fighting to stay conscious. He felt a surge of affection for him, and knew he needed to say something before it was too late for the both of them.

"Hey," he whispered to Gregory, his voice not quite working from dehydration.

Gregory lifted his head a little, and looked like he was struggling to focus.

"Hey," he whispered back.

"I know I do not say this enough, mon cher, but I love you. More zan I could ever put into words."

A small smile graced Gregory's lips, as he tried to sit up straighter. "I love you too, Christophe," he whispered back.

"And, eh, I know I _never_ say this, but... you were right. You were right about coming 'ere, and I should 'ave listened to you. I'm sorry."

Gregory made a noise that was not quite a laugh. "Apology accepted, dear. Perhaps next time you'll listen to me when I object to something."

They sat in silence for a moment, watching each other. Christophe wished he wasn't bound to a chair, so that he might cross the room and hold Gregory in his arms, and kiss away the tears he could see gathering in his eyes. Gregory's expression contained more sadness and longing than Christophe had ever seen him express. He wished he had a fucking cigarette.

"Well," Christophe said at last, "Eef we 'ave to die, I am glad we will at least be together."

"Me too," whispered Gregory after a moment, looking away; the tears he had been holding back finally pouring down his face.

XXX

Kyle sat in the back seat of an SUV, nervously chewing his nails. He could hardly believe the moment they'd all be waiting for was finally here, and he couldn't help but feel apprehensive about it. It had taken two days of planning to organize the raid on the factory in St. Louis, and Kyle just hoped they weren't too late. He felt responsible for what was happening to Christophe and Gregory, even though sending them had been a group decision. A second phone conversation with Butters had revealed the awful sorts of torture their two comrades were being subjected to, and Kyle wouldn't even wish those things on his worst enemies, much less two people he liked.

Their SUV, with Kenny in the driver's seat, was leading their convoy, barreling down the highway at an alarming pace. A few other cars and trucks lead the way carrying extra supplies, with three stolen semi-trucks behind that, all full of resistance fighters. They had only about 1,000 men, with many in the camp unfit for combat, or on other missions, but the other groups they were in contact with were all joining in the raid, and they expected to have at least 10,000 fighters when all was said and done.

They'd been switching roads every few hundred miles, trying to evade the troops that were now all too aware of their presence. They'd tried to get through the first roadblock with fake papers, but as soon as the soldiers saw Kyle they drew their weapons, recognizing him even though he'd dyed his hair black, and had attempted to arrest them. They only managed to escape when one of their men in the car behind them opened fire on the soldiers, screaming at Kenny to get going. They chose to just drive through every other road block after that one, ducking down in the car at each one to avoid being shot.

The only thing that kept them from being swarmed with troops was the fact that several major cities were practically war zones at the moment, having been overrun with resistance fighters and rioters. Most of the army had been sent to those cities to suppress the fighting, and this worked out well to La Resistance's advantage. The less soldiers on their ass, the better.

"We should be in St. Louis in about two hours," announced Kenny over their radio system.

Kyle heard a chorus of "10-4," in response, and wondered why everyone else seemed so calm. He'd distracted himself for the first few hours by making battle plans with Stan, but by now they had a pretty good idea of what they were going to do, and Kyle's fear had steadily been growing stronger ever since. Listening to Kenny banter with Craig, who was in the passenger seat, had kept him occupied for a while, their conversation almost frighteningly normal given the situation, but Craig had fallen asleep a few hours ago, leaving Kyle to his thoughts, which were thankfully disrupted when Stan reached over and took his hand.

"I keep getting confused every time I look at you," he said.

"Why?" asked Kyle.

"Because, your hair, dude. It looks so weird."

"Oh," Kyle said, reaching up to fiddle with his curls, "I guess dying it was a total waste of time, anyway, since those soldiers recognized me immediately. Oh well."

"I can't wait until it grows out," Stan said, kissing him on the cheek, "I love your red hair."

Kyle smiled at him, and then scooted over in his seat to lean on Stan's shoulder.

"I'm glad someone does," he said, as Stan wrapped his arm around him.

He didn't realize he'd fallen asleep until he felt Stan shaking his shoulder.

"Wake up, dude," he said, urgently, "We're almost there!"

Kyle sat up with a start, going into full-blown panic mode blurting out obscenities until Stan grabbed his arms and calmed him down.

"Dude, it's going to be ok, look," Stan said, pointing to the empty lot that was their predetermined meeting place. It was full of men and women from other resistance groups, all milling around, waiting for something to do.

They parked their cars and trucks along the road, lining up behind the other groups' vehicles.

"You guys follow me," said Craig, as they all climbed out of the SUV, "Everyone else should stay close to the cars for now."

They all agreed, and Kenny relayed the massage over the radio, as their fighters began climbing out of the trucks, desperate for a good stretch or a tree to pee behind.

Craig led them over to a tall man, who looked like a hippie despite the machine gun strapped to his back. He and some other men were pouring over some lists and a map, but he looked up and smiled as their group approached him.  
>"Craig, hi!" he exclaimed, holding his hand out to shake Craig's.<p>

"This is Devon," Craig explained, "He's in charge of the New York resistance group. Devon, this is Stan, Kyle, and Kenny, leaders of La Resistance, from Colorado."

Devon shook all their hands in turn, smiling extra hard when he came to Kyle.

"Is this the infamous Kyle Broflovski?" he asked.

"Unfortunately," said Kyle, pulling out of the handshake, "I was framed, in case you were wondering."

"Yeah, I figured," said Devon, "But what did you do that was so bad that Cartman would want to target you?"

"His mere existence is enough, I think," cut in Craig, "We all grew up with Cartman, and he and Kyle were enemies even when they were kids."

"Whoa, you guys grew up with that asshole?" said one of the guys Devon had been speaking with, "You must have some crazy stories!"

"I don't know," interjected another man, "A lot of crazy people are normal as kids..."

"Well trust me, none of us were surprised how he turned out," said Kyle.

Devon just laughed and patted him on the back.

"Well," he said, "that'll all be over soon. We should be leaving in about an hour, so let's get this shit planned out and get on our way."

XXX

Christophe rolled over in bed, enjoying the warmth of the early morning light coming through the open curtain. Gregory blinked sleepily from the pillow beside his, before smiling softly and scooting over and rubbing his cheek on Christophe's shoulder.

"I love how warm your skin is in the morning," he said, moving closer to run his hand across his boyfriend's naked ribs.

Christophe smiled fondly at him, leaning over to plant kisses all over his face.

"Zis ees another 'allucination, non?" he asked, rolling on top of Gregory and running his hands up his arms and then down to his hips.

"Who cares?" said Gregory, arching up against him, wrapping his legs around Christophe's. They smiled at each other as their erections rubbed together.

"Well, may was well take advantage of ze situation," Christophe said, kissing his way down Gregory's chest. He stopped at his nipples, lapping at one while rubbing the other with his fingers. Gregory moaned and laced his hands into Christophe's hair, pulling it as Christophe sank his teeth in.

"Now, Christophe," he moaned, spreading his legs wide around Christophe's waist, "I need you now, _please._"

Christophe laughed to himself as he pulled the lube out of their bedside table. Gregory was almost never this desperate in reality, or if he was, he usually hid it very well, egging Christophe on with well-placed touches rather than begging him outright. He'd gotten mad the few times Christophe had tried to get him to beg for it, claiming it was undignified.

Somehow this thought simultaneously turned him on more, and made him very sad. He'd ride this fantasy out as long as he could, but he wanted the real thing, not some fake his subconscious had conjured up for him. It was kind of fun to have this imaginary Gregory doing the things Christophe had always wanted, but it felt wrong to him; like a cheap imitation.

"You _never_ beg," he informed the fake Gregory as he stretched him out with his fingers. He distantly heard a banging sound coming from outside the house, but decided to ignore it.

"Oh, sorry," he said, eyes glazing over as Christophe stroked him, "Would you prefer me to be a bitch to you?"

Christophe didn't answer for a moment, enjoying the expression on Gregory's face as his fingers worked inside him.

"I think I would prefer ze real you, that's all," Christophe muttered finally, lining himself up and slowly pushing in.

"Ah, yes, Christophe," Gregory moaned underneath him, wrapping his arms around his neck.

Christophe leaned down to kiss him, but somehow still heard his voice calling his name, even with their lips pressed together and tongues sliding across each other. But the voice wasn't calling his name in passion; he sounded slightly panicked. He realized at that moment that the banging sound he'd been ignoring was gunfire, and Gregory wasn't calling his name from underneath him; he was across the room.

Christophe blinked, and their cozy bedroom was gone, replaced by the dim factory room in which they'd spent the last several days.

"Ah, sheet," he muttered.

"Are you alright?" Gregory called out from a few feet away, still tightly bound in his chair, looking as though he'd been hit by several trains, "You had a weird look on your face, and you were sort of muttering words at the ceiling."

"Non, I was talking to you," he sighed, "I 'ave been 'allucinating een ze last day or two."

"Oh. Yes me too, actually. Dehydration combined with extreme hunger and sleep deprivation, probably. What were you hallucinating?"

"Sex," Christophe answered bluntly, amazed that Gregory was so alert after what they'd been through. He looked slightly excited for some reason.

"Oh my. With me, I should hope."

"Oui, of course."

Gregory attempted a smile at that, but his face was too much of a wreck to do much other than grimace.

"Well," he said brightly, as the sound of gunfire grew louder, "I don't think you'll need to hallucinate about that much longer."

"Pourquoi?"

"Because, my dear, I believe the cavalry has arrived."

XXX

Coordinating this many people was a difficult task, Stan mused. Usually when La Resistance went on missions they took only about a hundred people at the most, but here he was with about 1,000 of his own men to deal with, carefully planning their actions with those of the other groups.

Luckily the plan they had worked out with the other groups' leaders was working out so far. They had encircled the building at first, surprised that no one had yet figured out that they were there. They had entered the factory with force, taking out a great deal of the soldiers inside it with ease. It was only when Cartman's reinforcements arrived, surrounding the resistance fighters, that things began to get really grisly. Fighting on two fronts had taken out nearly a quarter of their men, but they were still going strong, and Stan had no doubt the day would be theirs.

"Ground floor is clear of soldiers," someone called over the radio, "I repeat- Ground floor is clear of soldiers."

"10-4," Stan called back, "LR Unit 3, move into position."

He glanced at Kyle, who was watching the scene beside him, smiling as 100 of their men approached the building, bursting through the doors, ready to fight. His arm was sluggishly bleeding from where a bullet had grazed him earlier, but he'd refused to leave Stan's side, and Ike, who had snuck out in one of the trucks despite Kyle's insistence that he stay in Colorado, was standing by him, bandaging the wound.

"You'll be fine," he assured Kyle, patting him on the shoulder, "I'll give you a round of antibiotics when we get home, but the wound's not too deep. You probably won't be able to use your arm much for a while, though."

"Good thing Kyle was a terrible shot to begin with, huh?" Stan joked, ignoring the scowl on his boyfriend's face.

"Thanks for the support, guys, really," he said, pushing his sleeve back down.

"Oh Jesus," Ike said, rolling his eyes and wandering away, looking for someone else to help.

"It might be safe enough for us to go in, soon," Stan said to Kyle as he kneeled down beside him, "I'd love to be there when they arrest Cartman."

"If someone doesn't shoot him, first. Or, shit, if he doesn't shoot himself... I wonder exactly how much he'd like to emulate Hitler at this point."  
>"Well," said Stan, "We can't do anything if he does that, but all our men have orders to take him alive. If we don't want to be seen as just a gang of hoodlums, he needs to be arrested and put on trial."<p>

"Yeah, except no judge in the court system _Cartman_ ran would convict him, and if we use our own people we'll still be accused of being a power-hungry mob or something."

"Oh well," said Stan with a shrug, "Can't please everyone, right?"

They ducked as a bullet whizzed pass their heads.

"Shit," said Kyle looking behind them, "Looks like more reinforcements have arrived."

Stan picked up his radio again, "Do we have an estimate of enemy troops on the perimeter?"

"A few hundred," answered Devon, whose men were in charge of that area, "We've still got them outnumbered, we're good." He sounded ridiculously cheerful.

"10-4," answered Stan, "Let us know if you need additional help."

"Okie dokie," said Devon, "Over and out!"

Stan looked at Kyle with an amused smirk on his face.

"Ever get the idea that that guy isn't taking this seriously?"

"Maybe he just watched one too many war movies as a kid," Kyle answered, taking Stan's hand in his.

"Attention!" Kenny shouted over the radio, from inside the building where he'd been leading a unit, "Objective has been captured! Objective has been captured! All troops within the building are surrendering!" He paused for a moment, and then shouted, "BASE!"

Stan laughed, and turned to smile at Kyle, but Kyle was quicker than him, and before he could say anything Kyle's hands and lips were on his face, and he was being smothered in kisses.

It took Stan a minute to calm down, after Kyle finally stopped frantically kissing him. They sat there grinning at each other for a moment, and then he reached for the "talk" button on his radio.

"Kenny, is it safe for me and Kyle to come into the building?" he asked.

"Yeah," was Kenny's reply, "But bring a doctor with you. We just found Gregory and Christophe, and they look like shit."

XXX

Ok, either one or two more chapters, I can't decide. Pleaaaaaase review! I'm really proud of this chapter.


	13. Chapter 12: Bring Him Home

Ugh, I am SO sorry it's taken me so long to update this. I've been trying to write it for a while, but between work and the holidays and a TON of family drama, it's been a tough one. So, I hope you enjoy this, and thank you to everyone who's given me support! Let me know what you think, please.

X

He didn't remember much about being rescued. He didn't remember the group of armed men entering the room with their guns drawn, and he didn't even _see_ the shocked looks upon their faces when they saw the state he and Gregory were in. He didn't remember Kenny coming into the room, or Stan and Kyle arriving a few minutes later with Kyle's brother in tow, as someone was in the process of untying the ropes that bound Christophe to his chair.

What he did remember was how desperate he had been to get to Gregory. How he'd been terrified that the whole thing was just another hallucination, and that somehow Gregory would disappear before he got the chance to hold him.

He'd been too weak to stand, stumbling and falling onto the floor when he tried to cross the room, but some merciful person had brought Gregory over to him, and he'd held him in his arms for the longest time, kissing his face and trying to ignore how badly they were both shaking, or how much every touch of Gregory's body against his own hurt. It was only when Ike insisted on having a look at their wounds that they loosened their grip on each other, never completely letting go. They'd sat side by side while he examined them, hand in torn, bloody hand.

Christophe assumed he must have passed out some time after that, because the next thing he knew he was laying in a bed, with an IV in his arm, a good portion of his body covered in bandages, and a cast on one of his arms. There was a moment of panic when he couldn't figure out where he was, but then he looked to his right and saw Gregory in the bed next to him, sleeping peacefully. They seemed to be in a large tent, set up as a make-shift hospital. There were many other men in beds lining the walls, some awake and talking cheerfully to each other, while others were in much worse conditions, with bloody bandages covering their bodies. He spied Kyle's brother, whose name he couldn't remember at the moment, walking between the beds with a clipboard in his hands.

Christophe tried to sit up, but a wave of pain rolled through his body, making his vision go white. He passed out again.

Someone was laying beside him the next time he woke up, holding his hand and stroking his cheek. He hated most people touching him, but he felt at peace with the presence at his side, and didn't bother to open his eyes, simply letting the other person pet him. His face twitched when the person's rough skin caught at a scab on his cheek.

"Sorry," he heard a soft voice whisper, as the hand pulled away from his face. He opened his eyes to see Gregory's head resting on the pillow next to him, smiling hard as Christophe came out of his sleep.

"Hi," he said as Christophe blinked sleepily at him. He looked close to tears.

"How long 'ave I been out?" Christophe asked, reaching over to push a stray lock of hair behind Gregory's ear. The cast on his arm made him feel heavy and clumsy, or maybe it was just the pain and exhaustion that made him feel that way. Never mind the medications that were no doubt pumping through his veins.

"A few days, I think," he answered, his voice rough with exhaustion, "I only just woke up about an hour ago."

"Did you manage to get into my bed all by yourself?" Christophe asked, surprised.

"Oh no, Ike helped me. I can barely sit up on my own," he said, as he began to stroke Christophe's cheek again, "I don't know what's going on, but Ike said he'd try and get Stan or Kyle in here to talk to us, when they have a moment. I gathered that they're quite busy."

Christophe didn't respond to this, just scooted closer to Gregory until they were pressed together, noses nearly touching. Despite the ache he felt on every inch of his body, he couldn't remember ever feeling this happy. To be able to touch Gregory again – the real Gregory – after what they'd been through seemed like it was too good to be true.

"Zis ees real, right?" he asked, running his fingers across Gregory's lips, "I am not going to wake up again, tied to zat fucking chair? Or are we dead and een 'eaven, maybe?"

Gregory smiled against his fingertips.

"I think if we were in Heaven our bodies would be healed, don't you?"

"Definitely," answered a voice from the foot of their bed. They turned and saw Kenny standing there, grinning as usual, with Stan and Kyle approaching behind him.

"And Heaven doesn't have hospitals, anyway," Kenny continued.

"How would you know?" asked Gregory, rolling away from Christophe a little, but not letting go of his hand.

"Oh, you know, I have my sources," Kenny said with a shrug.

"How are you guys doing?" Kyle asked, grinning down at them.

"We've been worse," answered Gregory, "What's going on?"

"Ike said you guys are doing good," said Kenny, "I mean, you kind of look like shit, and you both have some broken bones and stuff, be he assured me you'll be up and back to butt fucking in no time."

He laughed at the glares both Christophe and Gregory were shooting him, and pulled up a chair next to their bed. Stan and Kyle sat on Gregory's abandoned bed next to them.

"I'm glad you guys are ok," said Kyle, "I was so worried we'd be too late. As it was you were both unconscious for three days. Ike was afraid the dehydration alone would kill you, never mind all... this," he said, gesturing vaguely at their worn bodies.

Gregory just smiled tightly at him and said nothing. Christophe could tell he was already getting impatient with the small talk, and neither of them wanted to discuss what had happened in that dank, dark room with anyone.

"What 'appened?" asked Christophe, "Did you kill Cartman?"

"No," said Stan, "He's sitting in a shitty jail cell right now, though. He's going to go on trial in about a month."

"You should let me visit 'im when I'm 'ealed," said Christophe, trying to sit up more in the bed, and failing, "I would like to repay some of 'is, ah, 'ospitality."

"Yeah, well, we're trying to get him on charges of human right violations, so it might look a little hypocritical if we let him get his ass kicked while he's awaiting trial," answered Kyle.

Christophe felt a little disgruntled at this. Cartman would probably be put to death if he was found guilty, which was almost guaranteed, but watching someone else execute him wouldn't be nearly as satisfying as doing it himself.

"How did you find us?" Gregory asked beside him.

"Butters," answered Kenny with a grin, "He tried to warn us ahead of time that this was a trap, but we didn't get the message until it was too late. But he was in contact with us before the raid, so we knew what was going on here."

"Oh," said Gregory, looking slightly embarrassed, probably at the prospect of other people knowing what had happened to them. Although, Christophe mused, anyone who looked at him could tell that he'd been through hell.

"What's 'appened since we were, ah, liberated?" Christophe asked, hoping to take the other mens' focus off them.

"Well," started Kyle, "Most of the soldiers have surrendered, although there's still pockets of fighting going on in some areas. The New York resistance group is mostly in charge of the interim government. Butter has been helping them, since he had a lot of experience with that shit, working for Cartman. They're using the soldiers who surrendered to help with clean-up in major cities. There was a lot of really intense fighting and riots in most places, so they have their work cut out for them. And they haven't decided when they're going to hold elections yet, but they're working all that stuff out. Everyone seems pretty happy, though. You guys missed most of the partying."

"But you aren't involved in the interim government?" asked Gregory.

"No," said Stan, exchanging a look with Kyle, "We've been helping them out, giving advice and opinions and whatever they ask for, but uh, Kyle and I are done with this. We just want to go back to Colorado and start over. We're going to go back to our cafe, and maybe... think about starting a family," he said, looking a little embarrassed, "Kenny's, uh... I don't know. What do you think you'll do, man?" Stan asked, turning to Kenny, who just shrugged at him.

"I really liked doing this organizational shit, so I might stick around and help with the government stuff. Craig is already back in DC," he explained to Christophe and Gregory, "so, I don't know. I might go out there. I might go back to Colorado... I don't know."

"We'd miss you, if you didn't come back with us, dude," Stan said, leaning over to put his hand on Kenny's shoulder. Kyle was nodding emphatically next to him.

Christophe shifted in his bed, quickly growing bored with the extra company. Next to him, Gregory yawned, hiding his face in Christophe's shoulder.

Kyle elbowed Stan, and they stood up together, with Kenny following suit, once he realized what was going on.

"Well, anyway," said Kyle, "You guys get some rest, ok? And let us know if you need anything. We'll probably be around for another couple of days before heading back to Colorado."

"Yes of course," said Gregory, clearly trying to will himself awake, "Please keep us updated if anything changes."

"Sure," said Stan, reaching for Kyle's hand and leading him away, with Kenny in pursuit.

Gregory rolled back against Christophe, burying his face against his shoulder once more.

"I don't think I've ever been so tired in my whole life," he mumbled. Christophe was glad that Gregory had a habit of carrying on conversations while he brushed his teeth, or Christophe probably wouldn't have had a clue what he'd said. Luckily his experience made him fluent in Mumblese.

"I think you 'ave reason to be tired," he responded, shifting so that he could put his arms around his exhausted boyfriend, "After what we 'ave been through... I think we deserve some rest."

"Couldn't agree more," Gregory mumbled, as he made himself comfortable against Christophe's chest, and quickly dropped off into a deep sleep.

In the coming years they would never really talk about what happened to them. They were not the sort of men who discussed such matters in an open way. Occasionally Christophe would wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of Gregory screaming and thrashing beside him, and he'd shake him into wakefulness, and hold him until he calmed down. Gregory would do the same for him, when he had nightmares.

The torture had messed them both up, both physically and psychologically. Gregory was never able to walk without a cane again, and had severe anxiety when they went anywhere new, although he hid it very well. Christophe's broken hand, which had been mangled by Cartman himself, healed fairly well, but was still prone to painful arthritic fits when the weather was bad, and he grew increasingly protective of Gregory over time, watching all his interactions carefully, and glaring at anyone who came too close to him.

But despite their problems, they were both very happy. They both felt they had a new lease on life, and were grateful to be given a second chance.

Upon returning to Colorado, Stan and Kyle had found their cafe had been smashed into and burned down, whether by rioters or the army, they never knew. They moved back into the former Resistance base, where they were soon joined by Christophe and Gregory, once they were well enough to travel once more. Their next joint venture was born from an innocent inquiry at dinner one night.

"What do you guys miss most about your house?" Kyle asked, as he passed a dish of potato latkes to Stan.

"The garden," Gregory answered without hesitation.

"Hm, I miss being able to walk around naked, personally," said Christophe, though a mouthful of food, ignoring the look Gregory gave him, "but ah, yes, we 'ad a nice garden. I liked that."

"You both did the gardening?" Stan asked, glancing at Kyle as he did so.

"Well, actually Christophe did most of it. I picked out what I wanted to be planted, and I watered and picked the strawberries sometimes, but he did most of the dirty work," Gregory said, smiling at Christophe who merely nodded at this.

Kyle simply looked at them thoughtfully, and then said, "Well then, I have a proposition for you."

Tournesol Farm was fully planned out within a week.

"Stan and I have been talking about this for a while," Kyle explained to Gregory, "but see, we weren't really sure if we could get it off the ground. We figured I could run the business side, and he could direct labor, which would probably be former Resistance members in need of work, but we weren't sure we could handle it on our own. With your help in the office, and Christophe's help in the field, I'm sure we could be successful."

And he was right. After only the second season on the property they'd purchased an hour north of Denver, they had enough money for Christophe and Gregory to build their own home, right next to the old farmhouse they'd been sharing with Stan and Kyle.

Gregory never would have though he'd enjoy living on a farm, but as he watched the sun rise over the vast fields of sunflowers from his bedroom window, he realized how much he enjoyed the peace. He had no regrets about leaving his former life behind, and was perfectly content that these days, the biggest battles he and Christophe had to fight were the occasional spat with Stan. Gregory didn't even mind those, since Christophe's standard response to anger was to drag Gregory off to their bedroom to expel his pent-up energy.

At that thought, Gregory smiled to himself, and headed out to work.

X

X

Ah, JESUS I had such a hard time finishing this. Sorry if the ending was lame but HEY I'M DONE YAY. So, uh, reviews, please?

Just an FYI, my next project is for the SPBB thing, and will be a WWII AU fic. It'll be Gregstophe and Style again, and it should be pretty fun, once I get on it. I'm also sort of dabbling at a Tophlovski fic, if any of you are into that.

So THANK YOU for reading this, and I hope you enjoyed it. 3


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